UNIV.  OF  CALIF 


LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


y.r 


*&3*M 


HenryWinthesterRolfe 


THE    EGOIST 


GEORGE  MEREDITH'S  WORKS. 


Each  Novel  will  be  complete  in  One  Volume,  price  bs. 


DIANA  OF  THE  CROSS  WAYS. 
EVAN  HARRINGTON. 
THE  ORDEAL  OF  RICHARD  FEVEREL. 
THE  ADVENTURES  OF  HARRY  RICHMOND. 
SANDRA  BELLONI,  originally  Emilia  in  England. 
VITTORIA. 
RBCDA  FLEMING. 
BEAUCHAMP'S  CAREER. 
THE  EGOIST. 

THE    SHAVING   OF    SHAGPAT,  an   Arabian   Enter- 
tainment ;  and  FARINA. 
ONE  OF  OUR  CONQUERORS. 
THE  TRAGIC  COMEDIANS. 


THE    EGOIST 


BY 

GEORGE    MEREDITH 


AUTHOR'S     EDITION 


BOSTON 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS 

1893 


Pkesswork  by  John  Wilson  and  Son, 
University  Press. 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter  Page 
PRELUDE.       A    CHAPTER    OF    WHICH    THE    LAST    PAGE 

ONLY   IS    OF    ANY    IMPORTANCE 1 

I.       A   MINOR  INCIDENT,  SHOWING  AN  HEREDITARY  APTI- 
TUDE   IN   THE    USE    OF    THE    KNIFE 5 

II.       THE   YOUNG    SIR   WILLOUGHBY 9 

III.  CONSTANTIA    DURHAM 14 

IV,  L/ETITIA    DALE 21 

V.       CLARA    MIDDLETON 31 

VI.       HIS   COURTSHIP 42 

VII.       THE   BETROTHED 51 

VIII.       A     RUN    WITH     THE     TRUANT:     A    WALK    WITH     THE 

MASTER 64 

IX.      CLARA    AND    L.ETITIA    MEET:     THEY    ARE    COMPARED  72 
X.       IN     WHICH     SIR    WILLOUGHBY    CHANCES     TO     SUPPLY 

THE    TITLE    FOR    HIMSELF 82 

XI.       THE    DOUBLE-BLOSSOM    WILD    CHERRY-TREE         ...  97 

XII.       MISS    MIDDLETON    AND    MR.    VERNON    WHITFORD     .       .  109 

XIII.  THE    FIRST    EFFORT    AFTER    FREEDOM 115 

XIV.  SIR    WILLOUGHBY    AND    L^TITIA 126 

XV.       THE    PETITION    FOR    A    RELEASE 134 

XVI.       CLARA    AND    L^ETITIA              146 

XVII.       THE    PORCELAIN    VASE 154 

XVIII.       COLONEL    DE    CRAYE 161 

XIX.       COLONEL   DE    CRAYE    AND    CLARA    MIDDLETON         .       .  169 

XX.       AN    AGED    AND    A    GREAT   WINE 180 

xxi.     clara's  meditations 191 

XXII.       THE  RIDE 202 

XXIII.  TREATS    OF    THE    UNION   OF    TEMPER    AND    POLICY      .  214 

XXIV.  CONTAINS     AN     INSTANCE     OF    THE     GENEROSITY     OF 

WILLOUGHBY 226 

XXV.       THE    FLIGHT    IN    WILD    WEATHER 237 

XXVI.       VERNON    IN   PURSUIT 252 

XXVII.  AT    THE    RAILWAY    STATION 25S 

XXVIII.  THE     RETURN 2G6 


VI  CON 

PTi*  Page 

\\1X.  IN  WHICH  THE  -f  N-I  I  IVEN1  Bfl  Of  >IK  WII.I.ul IGHBT 
I-  1  XPI.AINED:  AM>  BR  RECEIVES  Ml  i  II  IN- 
STRUCTION          274 

XXX.       TREATING  <<E  TDK  DINNER-PARTY  .VI   MRS.  MOUNT- 
STUART    JENKiN-"N's 

\\\I.       -IK       WILLOUGHBY       ATTEMPTS        AND       ACHIK\ 

PATHOS 

XXXII.       L.ETITIA    DALE    DISCOVERS  A   SPIRITUAL  CHAN' 

AND     DK.     MIDDLETON    A     PHYSICAL     ....        312 
XXXIII.       IN  WHICH   THE  COMK     MUSE   HAS    AN   EYE   ON    TWO 

GOOD  £  -  321 

XXXIV.       Ml:-.    M"l*NTSTLART    AND    SIR    WILLOUGHBY 

XXXV.        MI-S     MIDDLETON    AND    MRS.    M<  >U  N  T-T  I"  A  RT        .        .       310 
XXXVI.       ANIMATED  CONVERSATION  AT  A  LUNCHEON-TABLE       356 
XXXVII.      CONTAINS    CLEVER  FENCING  AND  INTIMATIONS  <»K 

THE    REED    EOR    IT  

XXXVIII.        IN    WHICH    WE    TAKE    A    >TEP    TO    THE    CENTP.E    OF 

EGOISM         .      - 

XXXIX.       IN    THE    HEART    OE    THE    EGOIST 381 

XI..       MIDNIGHT:    SIR  WILLOUGHBV  AND  I..ETITIA  ;    WITH 

TOUNG    CR06SJAY    UNDER    A    COVERLET       .       .      388 
XI.I.       THE    REV.    DK     MIDDLETON,   CLARA,   AND   81 R    WIL- 
LOUGHBY     399 

XI.II.       ~}l"-\-  THE  DIVINING  ARTSOP  A  PERCEPTIVE  MIND      414 
XI. III.       IN     WHICH     -IP.    WTLLOUGHBY    IS     I.ED     TO     THINK 
THAT       THE       ELEMENTS       HAVE       CONSPIRED 

AGAINST    HIM       . 428 

XI. IV.  DK  MIDDLETON:  THE  LADIES  ELEANOR  AND  ISA- 
BEL:   AND    MR.    DALR 442 

XI.V.       THE    PATTERNE    I.  IDIES:    MR    DALE:    LADY  BUSSHE 

AND  ladyculmer:  AND  Ml:-,  mountstuart 

JENXINSOH 

XLVI.       THE    SCENE    OP    BIE    WILLOUGHBY-    GENERALSHIP 
XI.VII.       -IP.    WILLOUGHBY   AND    HIS     FRIEND     HORA(  B    DE 

CRAVE 473 

XLVIII.       THE    LOVERS 

XLIX.       L.ETITIA    AND    -IK    WILLOUGHBY 

L  VII. i    H     THE    CURTAIN     EALLS 


THE  EGOIST. 


PRELUDE. 

A  CHAPTER  07  WHICH  THE  LAST  PAGE  OXLY  15  OF  AVT  IMPOSTAKCS. 

Comedy  is  a  eame  played  to  throw  reflections  upon  social 
life,  ana  it  deals  with  human  nature  in  the  drawing-room  of 
civilized  men  and  women,  where  we  have  no  dust  of  ihe 
struggling  enter  world,  no  mire,  no  violent  crashes,  to  make 
the  correctness  of  the  representation  convincing.  Credulity 
is  not  wooed  through  the  impressionable  senses  :  nor  have 
we  recourse  to  the  small  circular  glow  of  the  watchmaker's 
eye  to  raise  in  bright  relief  minutest  grs  ins  of  evidence  for 
the  muting  of  incredulity.  The  comic  Spirit  conceives  a 
definite  situation  for  a  number  of  characters,  and  rejects  all 
accessories  in  the  exclusive  pursuit  of  them  and  their  speech. 
For,  being  a  spirit,  he  hunts  the  spirit  in.  men  ;  vision  and 
ardour  constitute  his  merit :  he  has  not  a  thought  of  | 
suading  you  to  believe  in  him.  Follow  and  you  will  see. 
But  there  is  a  question  of  the  value  of  a  run  at  his  heel- 
Now  the  world  is  possessed  of  a  certain  big  book,  the 
bio-crest  book  on  earth ;  that  micht  indeed  be  called  the 
Book  of  Earth  ;  wh  «e  title  is  the  Book  of  Egoism,  and  it  is 
a  book  full  of  the  world's  wisdom.  So  full  of  it.  and  of  such 
dimensions  is  this  book,  in  which  the  generations  have 
written  ever  since  they  took  to  writing,  that  to  be  profitable 
to  us  the  Book  needs  a  pow<  r.ul  compression. 

Who.  says  the  notable  humourist,  in  allusion  to  this  Book, 
who   can  studiously   travel    tl  rough    sheets    of    leaves    now 

B 


2  THE  BOOIi  i. 

capable  of  a  stretch  from  the   Lizard  to  the  last  few  poor 
pulmonary  snips  and  Eshreds  of  Leagues  dancing  on  their  I 
for  cold,  explorers  tell  as,  and  catching  breath  by  g 1  luck. 

like  dogs  at  bones  about  a  table,  on  the  edge  of  the  Pole? 
Inordinate  unvaried  length,  sheer  longinqoity,  staggers  the 
heart,  ages  the  very  heart  of  us  at  a  view.  And  bow  it'  we 
manage  finally  to  print  one  of  onr  pages  on  the  crow-scalp 
of  that  solitary  majestic  outsider  ?  We  may  with  effort  get 
even  him  into  the  Book;  vet  the  knowledge  we  want  will 
not  be  more  present  with  us  thai,  it  was  when  the  chapters 
hung  their  end  over  the  cliff  you  ken  of  at  Dover,  where  sits 
our  great  lord  and  master  contemplating  the  seas  with  out 
upon  the  reflex  of  that  within  ! 

In  other  words,  as  I  venture  to  translate  him  (humouri-t- 
are  difficult :  it  is  a  piece  of  their  humour  to  puzzle  our 
wits),  the  inward  mirror,  the  embracing  and  condensing 
spirit,  is  required  to  give  us  those  interminable  milepost 
piles  of  matter  (extending  well-nigh  to  the  very  Pole)  in 
essence,  in  chosen  samples,  digest ibly.  I  conceive  him  to 
indicate  that  the  realistic  method  of  a  conscientious  tran- 
scription of  all  the  visible,  and  a  repetition  of  all  the  audible, 
is  mainly  accountable  for  our  present  branfulness,  and  for 
that  prolongation  of  the  vasty  and  t lie  noisy,  out  of  which, 
as  from  an  undrained  fen.  Bteams  the  malady  of  sameness, 
our  modern  malady.  We  have  the  malady,  whatever  may 
be  the  cure  or  the  cause.  We  drove  in  a  body  to  Science 
the  other  day  for  an  antidote ;  which  was  as  if  tired  pedes- 
trians should  mount  the  engine-box  of  headlong  trains;  and 
Science  introduced  us  to  our  o'er-hoary  ancestry — them  in 
the  Oriental  posture:  whereupon  we  set  up  a  primaeval 
chattering  to  rival  the  Amazon  forest  nigh  nightfall,  cured, 
we  fancied.  And  before  daybreak  our  disease  was  hanging 
on  to  us  again,  with  the  extension  of  a  tail.  We  had  it  Eore 
and  aft.  We  v.  ere  the  same,  and  animals  into  the  bargain. 
That  is  all  we  gol  \'i-<<\i\  Science. 

Art  is  the  specific.  We  have  little  to  learn  of  apes,  and 
they  may  be  left.  The  chief  consideration  for  us  is,  what 
particular  practice  of  Art  in  letters  is  the  best  for  the 
perusal  of  the  Book  of  our  common  wisdom;  so  that  with 
Clearer  minds  and  livelier  manners  we  may  escape,  as  it 
were,  into  daylighl  and  song  from  ;)  land  of  fog-horns.  Shall 
we  read  it  by  the  watchmaker's  eye  in  luminous  rings  erup- 


PJRKLUDE.  3 

tive  of  the  infinitesimal,  or  pointed  with  examples  and 
types  under  the  broad  Alpine  survey  of  the  spirit  born  of 
our  united  social  intelligence,  which  is  the  comic  Spirit  ? 
Wise  men  say  the  latter.  They  tell  us  that  there  is  a  con- 
stant tendency  in  the  Book  to  accumulate  excess  of  substance, 
and  such  repleteness,  obscuring  the  glass  it  holds  to  man- 
kind, renders  us  inexact  in  the  recognition  of  our  individual 
countenances :  a  perilous  thing  for  civilization.  And  these 
wise  men  are  strong  in  their  opinion  that  we  should  encour- 
age the  comic  Spirit,  who  is,  after  all,  our  own  offspring,  to 
relieve  the  Book.  Comedy,  they  say,  is  the  true  diversion, 
as  it  is  likewise  the  key  of  the  great  Book,  the  music  of  the 
Book.  They  tell  us  how  it  condenses  whole  sections  of  the 
Book  in  a  sentence,  volumes  in  a  character ;  so  that  a  fair 
part  of  a  book  outstripping  thousands  of  leagues  when 
unrolled,  may  be  compassed  in  one  comic  sitting. 

For  verily,  say  the}',  we  must  read  what  we  can  of  it,  at 
leas  j  the  page  before  us,  if  we  would  be  men.  One,  with  an 
index  on  the  Book  cries  out,  in  a  style  pardonable  to  his 
fervency :  The  remedy  of  your  frightful  affliction  is  here, 
through  the  stillatory  of  Comedy,  and  not  in  Science,  nor 
yet  in  Speed,  whose  name  is  but  another  for  voracity.  Why, 
to  be  alive,  to  be  quick  in  the  soul,  there  should  be  diversity 
in  the  companion-throbs  of  your  pulses.  Interrogate  them. 
They  lump  along  like  the  old  lob-legs  of  Dobbin  the  horse; 
or  do  their  business  like  cudgels  of  carpet-thwackers  expel- 
ling dust,  or  the  cottage-clock  pendulum  teaching  the  infant 
hour  over  midnight  simple  arithmetic.  This  too  in  spite  of 
Bacchus.  And  let  them  gallop ;  let  them  gallop  with  the 
God  bestriding  them,  gallop  to  Hymen,  gallop  to  Hades,  they 
strike  the  same  note.  Monstrous  monotonousness  has  en- 
folded us  as  with  the  arms  of  Amphitrite  !  We  hear  a  shout 
of  war  for  a  diversion. — Comedy  he  pronounces  to  be  our 
means  of  reading  swiftly  and  comprehensively.  She  it  is 
who  proposes  the  correcting  of  pretentiousness,  of  inflation, 
of  dulness,  and  of  the  vestiges  of  rawness  and  grossness  to 
be  found  among  us.  She  is  the  ultimate  civilizer,  the 
polisher,  a  sweet  cook.  If,  he  says,  she  watches  over  senti- 
mentalism  with  a  birch-rod,  she  is  not  opposed  to  romance. 
You  may  love,  and  warmly  love,  so  long  as  you  are  honest. 
Do  not  offend  reason.  A  lover  pretending  too  much  by  one 
foot's  length  of  pretence,  will  have  that  foot  caught  in  hel 

b2 


4  THE  EGOIST. 

trap.  In  Comedy  is  the  singular  scene  of  charity  issuing  of 
disdain  under  the  stroke  ol  honourable  Laughter:  an  Ariel 
released  by  Prospero's  wand  from  the  fetters  of  the  damned 
witch  Sycorax.  And  this  laughter  of  reason  refreshed  is 
floriferous,  like  the  magical  great  -ale  of  the  shifty  Spring 
deciding  for  Summer.  Von  hear  it  giving  the  delicate  spirit 
his  liberty.  Listen,  for  comparison,  to  an  unleavened 
society:  a  low  as  of  the  ndderful  COW  past  milking  hour! 
0  for  a  titled  ecclesiastic  to  curse  to  excommunication  that 
unholy  thing  ! — So  far  an  enthusiast  perhaps;  Irut  he  should 
have  a  hearing. 

Concerning  pathos,  no  ship  can  now  set  sail  without 
pathos;  and  we  are  not  totally  deficient  of  pathos;  which 
is.  I  do  not  accurately  know  what,  if  not  the  ballast, 
reducible    to    moisture    by    patent     pi  on    board    our 

modern  vessel ;  for  it  can  hardly  be  the  cargo,  and  the 
general  water-supply  has  other  uses;  and  ships  well 
charged  with  it  seem  to  sail  the  stiff  est: — there  is  a  touch 
of  pathos.  The  Egoist  surely  inspires  pity.  He  who 
would  desire  to  clothe  himself  at  everybody's  expense,  and 
is  of  that  desire  condemned  to  strip  himself  stark  naked,  he, 
if  pathos  ever  had  a  form,  might  be  taken  for  the  actual 
person.  Only  he  is  not  allowed  to  rush  at  you,  roll  you 
over  and  squeeze  your  body  for  the  briny  drops.  There  is 
the  innovation. 

You  may  as  well  know  him  out  of  hand,  as  a  gentleman 
of  our  time  and  country,  of  wealth  and  station;  a  not 
flexile  figure,  do  what  we  may  with  him  ;  the  humour  of 
whom  scarcely  dimples  the  surface  and  is  distinguishable 
but  by  very  penetrative,  very  wicked  imps,  whose  fits  of 
roaring  below  at  seme  generally  imperceptible  stroke  of  his 
quality,  have  first  made  the  mild  literary  angels  aware  of 
s  met  hing  comic  in  him,  when  they  were  one  and  all  about 
to  describe  the  gentleman  on  the  beading  of  the  records 
baldly  (where  brevity  is  most  complimentary)  as  a  gentle- 
man of  family  and  property,  an  idol  of  a  decorous  island 
that  admires  the  concrete.  Imps  have  their  freakish 
wickedness  in  them  to  kindle  detective  vision:  malignly  do 
they  love  to  nncovcr  ridiculousness  in  imposing  figures. 
Wherever  they  catch  eight  of  Egoism  they  pitch  their 
camps,  they  circle  and  squat,  and  forthwith  they  trim  their 
lanterns,  confident    of  the    ludicrous  to  come.      So  confident 


A  MINOR  INCIDENT.  0 

that  their  grip  of  an  English  gentleman,  in  whom  they  have 
spied  their  game,  never  relaxes  until  he  begins  insensibly  to 
frolic  and  antic,  unknown  to  himself,  and  comes  out  in  the 
native  steam  which  is  their  scent  of  the  chase.  Instantly 
off  they  scour,  Egoist  and  imps.  They  will,  it  is  known  of 
them,  dog  a  great  House  for  centuries,  and  be  at  the  birth 
of  all  the  new  heirs  in  succession,  diligently  taking  con- 
firmatory notes,  to  join  hands  and  chime  their  chorus  in  one 
of  their  merry  rings  round  the  tottering  pillar  of  the  House, 
when  his  turn  arrives ;  as  if  they  had  (possibly  they  had) 
smelt  of  old  date  a  doomed  colossus  of  Egoism  in  that 
unborn,  unconceived  inheritor  of  the  stuff  of  the  family. 
They  dare  not  bo  chuckling  while  Egoism  is  valiant,  while 
sober,  while  socially  valuable,  nationally  serviceable.  They 
wait. 

Aforetime  a  grand  old  Egoism  built  the  House.  It  would 
appear  that  ever  finer  essences  of  it  are  demanded  to  sustain 
the  structure  :  but  especially  would  it  appear  that  a  rever- 
sion to  the  gross  original,  beneath  a  mask  and  in  a  vein  of 
fineness,  is  an  earthquake  at  the  foundations  of  the  House. 
Better  that  it  should  not  have  consented  to  motion,  and 
have  held  stubbornly  to  all  ancestral  ways,  than  have  bred 
that  anachronic  spectre.  The  sight,  however,  is  one  to 
make  our  squatting  imps  in  circle  grow  restless  on  their 
haunches,  as  they  bend  eyes  instantly,  ears  at  full  cock,  for 
the  commencement  of  the  comic  drama  of  the  suicide.  If 
this  line  of  verse  be  not  yet  in  our  literature : 

Through  very  love  of  self  himself  he  slew, 

let  it  be  admitted  for  his  epitaph. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  MINOR  INCIDENT  SHOWING  AN  HEREDITARY  APTITUDE  IN  TnB 
USE  OF  THE  KNIFE. 

There  was  an  ominously  anxious  watch  of  eyes  visible 
and  invisible  over  the  infancy  of  Willoughby,  fifth  in 
descent  from  Simon  Patterne,  of  Patterne  Hall,  premier  of 


I  Hi 

liremeotl    and 

"-work  of 
I   w  iili  the  |"  ing  N- 

II' 

■  mphasia  <>f  di  ath    to   youn| 

I.ltrly     !!■!■.     W6     Illllsf 

Llso  t be  tree  !•• 
-    in  its  begin- 
Soil  is  easily 
I  a      ife,  and  children  come  of 

knife   is  a 
Paup  r  I  vere 

d  of  tl  was  1  he  li<»j>e  of 

\  ;  the  Ma 

-ininl- 

f    the  one    Lientenaut 

I  he  famoua  hard  6ght< 

anpreti  nding  cool  Bort 

i.   «.n  the    part    of   the   modest 

M    riverain 

of  ( Ihina.      The 

.  of  his  rank, 

In-   in-  desty  :    ■  he   had 

Our  Wlllonghby  was  t  hen  at  ( !oll< 

■  m    of    hia    years,   and 
•  he  rep  *   t  he  printing  of  his 

I  !•    tli"iiLrlit   over  it   for  several 
title  and  heritage,  he  scut 
3am  of  money 
illant  fellow's   pay  per  annum,  at 

with    the    tiist,    or 

in  the  remark  to  friends 

than  v.  The  man  is  a 

1 1        any    Patterne  Bhould 

rder  of  questions 

Dsary.     In  t ho 

•    •  is   cheque,  the   lieu. 

■  al  the  ai  d  Hall, 

!   thai   la'  had 

?.-i   soldier's  life. 
■■  military 

1  the    Marine.'' 


A  MINOR  INCIDENT.  7 

It  was  funny ;  and  not  less  laughable  was  the  description 
of  his  namesake's  deed  of  valour :  with  the  rescued  British 
sailor  inebriate,  and  the  hauling  off  to  captivity  of  the  three 
braves  of  the  black  dragon  on  a  yellow  ground,  a 'JuJ  the 
tying  of  thein  together  back  to  back  by  their  pigtails,  and 
driving  of  them  into  our  lines  upon  a  newly  devised  dying- 
top  style  of  march  that  inclined  to  the  oblique,  like  the 
astonished  six  eyes  of  the  celestial  prisoners,  for  straight 
they  could  not  go.  The  humour  of  gentlemen  at  home  is 
always  highly  excited  by  such  cool  feats.  We  are  a  small 
island,  but  you  see  what  we  do.  The  ladies  at  the  Hall, 
Sir  Willoughby's  mother,  and  his  aunts  Eleanor  and  Isabel, 
were  more  affected  than  he  by  the  circumstance  of  their 
having  a  Patterne  in  the  Marines.  But  how  then  !  We 
English  have  ducal  blood  in  business  :  we  have,  genealo- 
gists tell  us,  royal  blood  in  common  trades.  For  all  our 
pride  we  are  a  queer  people  ;  and  you  may  be  ordering 
butcher's  meat  of  a  Tudor,  sitting  on  the  cane-bottom  chairs 
of  a  Plantagenet.  By  and  by  you  may  ....  but  cherish 
your  reverence.  Young  Willoughby  made  a  kind  of  shock- 
head  or  football  hero  of  his  gallant  distant  cousin,  and 
wondered  occasionally  that  the  fellow  had  been  content  to 
despatch  a  letter  of  effusive  thanks  without  availing  him- 
self of  the  invitation  to  partake  of  the  hospitalities  of 
Patterne. 

He  was  one  afternoon  parading  between  showers  on  the 
stately  garden  terrace  of  the  Hall,  in  company  with  his 
affianced,  the  beautiful  and  dashing  Constantia  Durham, 
followed  by  knots  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  vowed  to  fresh 
air  before  dinner,  while  it  was  to  be  had.  Chancing  with 
his  usual  happy  fortune  (we  call  these  things  dealt  to  us 
out  of  the  great  hidden  dispensary,  chance)  to  glance  up 
the  avenue  of  limes,  as  he  was  in  the  act  of  turning  on  his 
heel  at  the  end  of  the  terrace,  and  it  should  be  added,  dis- 
coursing with  passion's  privilege  of  the  passion  of  love  to 
Miss  Durham,  Sir  Willoughby,  who  was  anythingbut  obtuse, 
experienced  a  presentiment  upon  espying  a  thick-set  stumpy 
man  crossing  the  gravel  space  from  the  avenue  to  the  front 
steps  of  the  Hall,  decidedly  not  bearing  the  stamp  of  the 
gentleman  "  on  his  hat,  his  coat,  his  feet,  or  anything  that 
was  his,"  Willoughby  subsequently  observed  to  the  ladies  of 
his  family  in  the  Scriptural  style  of  gentlemen  who  do  bear 


8  Tfl 

the  stamp.  Bis  brief  sketch  of  the  creature  was  repulsive. 
The  visitor  carried  a  bag,  and  his  coat-collar  was  up,  hii 
hat  was  melancholy;  he  had  the  appearance  of  a  bankrupt 
tradesman  absconding;  m>  gloves,  m>  umbrella. 

Ajb  to  the  incident  we  have  to  note,  it  was  very  slight. 
The  card  of  Lieutenanl  Patterne  was  handed  toSirWil- 
loughby,  who  laid  it  on  the  salver,  saying  to  the  footman: 
••  N,.t  at  hom( 

lie  bad  been  disappointed  in  the  agi  ly  deceived  in 

the  appearance  of  the  man  claiming  to  be  his  relative  in  this 
unseasonable  fashion;  and  his  acute  instinct  advised  him 
swiftly  of  the  absurdity  of  introducing  to  his  trie  mis  a  heavy 
unpresentable  senior  as  the  celebrated  gallant  Lieutenant  of 
Marines,  and  the  Bame  as  a  member  of  his  family  !  He  had 
talked  of  the  man  too  much,  too  enthusiastically,  to  be  able 
to  do  bo  A  young  Bubal  tern,  even  if  passably  vulgar  in 
figure,  can  be  Bhuffled  through  by  the  aid  of  the  heroical 
■.•  humourously  exaggerated  in  apology  for  his  aspect. 
Nothing  can  be  done  with  a  mature  and  stumpy  Marine  of  that 
rank.  Considerateness  dismisses  him  on  the  spot,  without 
parley.  It  was  performed  by  a  gentleman  supremely 
advanced  al  a  very  early  age  in  the  art  of  cutting. 

IS  rang  Sir  Willoughby  Bpoke  a  word  of  the  rejected  visitor 
to  Mi--  Durham,  in  response  to  her  startled  look :  "I  shall 
drop  him  a  cheque,'  be  said,  for  she  Beemed  personally 
wounded,  and  had  a  face  of  crimson. 

Tin-  j oung  lady  « I i *  1  not  reply. 

Dating  from   the  humble  departure  of  L  ant  Cross- 

jay  Patterne  up  the  limes-avenue  under  a  gathering  rain- 
cloud,  the  riie_-- <  if  imps  in  attendance  on  Sir  Willoughby, 
maintained  their  Btation  with  strict  observation  of  his 
movements  at  all  hours;  and  wire  comparisons  in  qt 
the  sympathetic  eagerness  of  the  eyes  of  caged  monkeys  lor 
the  hand  about  to  feed  them,  would  supply  one.  They  per- 
ceived in  him  a  fresh  development  and  very  subtle  manifest" 
aiion  of  tlio  verj  old  thing  from  which  lie  had  sprung, 


THE  YOUNG  SIR  WILLOL'GHBY.  J) 


CHAPTER  n. 

THE  YOUNG  SIR  WILLOUGHBT. 

These  little  scoundrel  imps,  who  have  attained  to  some 
respectability  as  the  dogs  and  pets  of  the  comic  Spirit,  had 
been  curiously  attentive  three  years  earlier,  long  before  thy 
public  announcement  of  his  engagement  to  the  beautiful 
Miss  Durham  on  the  day  of  Sir  Willoughby's  majority, 
when  Mrs.  Mountstuart  Jenkinson  said  her  word  of  him. 
Mrs.  Mountstuart  was  a  lady  certain  to  say  the  remembered, 
if  not  the  right,  thing.  Again  and  again  was  it  confirmed 
on  days  of  high  celebration,  days  of  birth  or  bridal,  how 
sure  she  was  to  hit  the  mark  that  rang  the  bell ;  and  away 
her  word  went  over  the  county:  and  had  she  been  an  un- 
charitable woman  she  could  have  ruled  the  county  with  an 
iron  rod  of  caricature,  so  sharp  was  her  touch.  A  grain  of 
malice  would  have  sent  county  faces  and  characters  awry 
into  the  currency.  She  was  wealthy  and  kindly,  and 
resembled  our  mother  Nature  in  her  reasonable  antipathies 
to  one  or  two  things  which  none  can  defend,  and  her  decided 
preference  of  persons  that  shone  in  the  sun.  Her  word 
sprang  out  of  her.  She  looked  at  you,  and  forth  it  came  : 
and  it  stuck  to  you,  as  nothing  laboured  or  literary  could 
have  adhered.  Her  saying  of  Lretitia  Dale  :  "  Here  she 
comes  with  a  romantic  tale  on  her  eyelashes,"  was  a  portrait 
of  Lastitia.  And  that  of  Vernon  Whit  ford  :  "He  is  a  Phoebus 
Apollo  turned  fasting  friar,"  painted  the  sunken  brilliancy 
of  the  lean  long- walker  and  scholar  at  a  stroke. 

Of  the  young  Sir  Willoughby,  her  word  was  brief;  and 
there  was  the  merit  of  it  on  a  day  when  he  was  hearing 
from  sunrise  to  the  setiing  of  the  moon  salutes  in  his 
honour,  songs  of  praise  and  Ciceronian  eulogy.  Rich, 
handsome,  courteous,  generous,  lord  of  the  Hall,  the  feast, 
and  dance,  he  excited  his  guests  of  both  sexes  to  a  holiday 
of  flattery.  And,  says  Mrs.  Mountstuart,  while  grand 
phrases  were  mouthing  round  about  him. :  "  You  see  he  has 
a  leg." 

That  you  saw,  of  course.     But  after  she  had  spoken  3-011 


li>  -i  in:  I  aOTST. 

iniicli   more.     Mrs.   Mountstuari    Baid   it  just  as  others 

:■  empty  nothings,  with   never  a  hinl   of  a  stress.     Her 

word  \\  as  taken  up,  and  very  soon,  from  the  extreme  end  of 

the  long  drawing-n i,  the  circulation  of  something  <>f  Mrs. 

Mounts!  uart's  was  distinct  ly  percept  Lble.  Lady  Patterne  sent 
a  little  Hebe  down,  skirting  the  dancers,  for  an  accurate 
report  of  it;  and  even  the  inappreciative  lips  of  a  veryyoung 
lady  transmitting  the  word  could  not  damp  the  impression 
of  its  weighty  truthfulness.  It  was  perfect!  Adulation  of 
the  young  .Sir  "Willoughby's  beauty  and  wit,  and  aristocratic 
hearing  and  mien,  and  of  his  moral  virtues,  was  common  : 
welcome  if  you  like,  as  a  form  of  homage;  but  common, 
almost  vulgar,  beside  Mrs.  Mountstuart's  quiet  little  touch 
of  nature.  In  seeming  to  say  infinitely  less  than  others,  as 
Miss  Isabel  Patterne  pointed  out  to  Lady  Busshe,  Mrs. 
Mountstuart  comprised  all  that  the  others  had  said,  by 
showing  the  needlessness  of  allusions  to  the  saliently  evident. 
.She  was  the  aristocrat  reproving  the  provincial.  "  He  is 
everything  you  have  had  the  goodness  to  remark,  ladies  and 
dear  sirs,  he  talks  charmingly,  dances  divinely,  rides  with 
the  air  of  a  commander-in-chief,  has  the  most  natural  grand 
pose  possible  without  ceasing  for  a  moment  to  be  the  young 
English  gentleman  he  is.  Alcibiades,  fresh  from  a  Louis  IV. 
perruquier,  could  not  surpass  him:  whatever  you  please ;  I 
could  outdo  you  in  sublime  comparisons,  were  I  minded  to 
pelt  him.      Have  you  noticed  that  he  has  a  leg  r" 

So  might  it  be  amplified.      A  simple-seeming  word  of  this 

import  is  the  triumph  of  the  spiritual,  and  where  it  passes 

for  coin  of  value,  tin-  has  reached  a  high  refinement  : 

idian  by  the  (esthetic  route.     <  >bser\  ation  of  Willoughby 

Patterne   p. .intra   out    to    Lady 
■     i"   tin-    leg,  Uu    directed   to  estimate 
1     That,  however,  is  prosaic     Dwell 
"1;  and  whit  I,,.,-  into 
1,11    how  '  rfuptuous   a 

•ugh  mournful  vener- 
ment   to  the  Court 
banded  with  love- 
Court.    Yet  have 
lish  cavalier  was 
tling  us  in  another 
tare  dulcet.     And 


THE  YOUNG  SIR  WILLOUGHBY.  11 

if  the  ladies  were  ....  we  will  hope  they  have  been  traduced. 
But  if  they  were,  if  they  were  too  tender,  ah  !  gentlemen 
were  gentlemen  then — worth  perishing  for!  There  is  this 
dream  in  the  English  country ;  and  it  must  be  an  aspiration 
after  some  form  of  melodious  gentlemanliness  which,  is 
imagined  to  have  inhabited  the  island  at  one  time;  as  among 
our  poets  the  dream  of  the  period  of  a  circle  of  chivalry  here 
is  encouraged  for  the  pleasure  of  the  imagination. 

M rs.  Mountstuart  touched  a  thrilling  chord.  "  In  spite 
of  men's  hateful  modern  costume,  you  see  he  has  a  leg." 

That  is,  the  leg  of  the  born  cavalier  is  before  you :  and 
obscure  it  as  you  will,  dress  degenerately,  there  it  is  for 
ladies  who  have  eyes.  Yon  see  it :  or,  you  see  he  has  it. 
Miss  Isabel  and  Miss  Eleanor  disputed  the  incidence  of  the 
emphasis,  but  surely,  though  a  slight  difference  of  meaning 
may  be  heard,  either  will  do :  many,  with  a  good  show  of 
reason,  throw  the  accent  upon  leg.  And  the  ladies  knew  for 
a  fact  that  Willoughby's  leg  was  exquisite  ;  ho  had  a  cavalier 
court-suit  in  his  wardrobe.  Mrs.  Mountstuart  signified  that 
the  leg  was  to  be  seen  because  it  was  a  burning  leg.  There 
it  is,  and  it  will  shine  through  !  He  has  the  leg  of  Rochester, 
Buckingham,  Dorset,  Suckling;  the  leg  that  smiles,  that 
winks,  is  obsequious  to  you,  yet  perforce  of  beauty  self- 
satisfied;  that  twinkles  to  a  tender  midway  between  im- 
periousness  and  seductiveness,  audacity  and  discretion ; 
between  '  you  shall  worship  me,'  and  '  I  am  devoted  to  you;' 
is  your  lord,  your  slave,  alternately  and  in  one.  It  is  a  leg 
of  ebb  and  flow  and  high-tide  ripples.  Such  a  leg,  when  it 
has  done  with  pretending  to  retire,  will  walk  straight  into 
the  hearts  of  women:     Nothing  so  fatal  to  them. 

Self-satisfied  it  must  be.  Humbleness  does  not  win  mul- 
titudes or  the  sex.  It  must  be  vain  to  have  a  sheen.  Cap- 
tivating  melodies  (to  prove  to  you  the  unavoidableness  of 
self-satisfaction  when  you  know  that  you  have  hit  perfection), 
listen  to  them  closely,  have  an  inner  pipe  of  that  conceit 
almost  ludicrous  when  you  detect  the  chirp. 

And  you  need  not  be  reminded  that  he  has  the  leg  without 
the  naughtiness.  You  see  eminent  in  him  what  we  would 
fain  have  brought  about  in  a  nation  that  has  lost  its  leg  in 
gaining  a  possibly  cleaner  morality.  And  that  is  often  con- 
tested ;  but  there  is  no  doubt  of  the  loss  of  the  leg. 

Well,  footmen  and  courtiers  and  Scottish  highlanders,  and 


12  THE  EGOIST. 

the  corps  de  ballet,  draymen  too,  have  legs,  and  staring  legs, 
shapely  enough.  Bui  what  are  they  F  not  the  modulated 
instrument  we  mean— simply  legs  For  leg-work,  dumb  as 
the  brutes.  Onr  cavalier's  is  the  poetic  leg,  a  portent,  a 
valiance.  He  has  it  as  Cicero  had  a  tongue.  It  is  a  lute  to 
scatter  Bongs  to  bis  mistress  ;  a  rapier,  is  she  obdurate.  In 
sooth  a  leg  with  brains  in  it,  soul. 

Ajid  its  shadows  are  an  ambush,  its  lights  a  surprise.  It 
blushes,  it  pales,  can  whisper,  exclaim.  It  is  a  peep,  a  part 
iv\  elation,  just  sufferable,  of  the  Olympian  god — Jove  play- 
in.'  carpet-knight . 

For  tbeyoum,'  Sir  Willoughby's  family  and  his  thoughtful 
admirers,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  Mrs.  Mountstuart's 
little  word  fetched  an  epoch  <>f  our  history  to  colour  the 
evening  of  his  arrival  at  man's  estate.  He  was  all  that 
Merrie  Charles's  Court  should  bave  been,  subtracting  not  a 
sparkle  from  what  it  was.  Under  this  light  he  danced,  and 
yon  may  consider  the  effect  of  it  on  his  company. 

lie  had  received  the  domestic  education  of  a  prince. 
Little  princes  abound  in  a  land  of  heaped  riches.  Where 
they  have  not  to  yield  military  service  to  an  Imperial  master, 
they  are  necessarily  here  and  there  dainty  (luring  youth, 
Sometimes  unmanageable,  and  as  they  are  hound  in  no  per- 
sonal duty  to  the  State,  each  is  for  himself,  with  full  present, 
and  what  is  more,  luxurious  prospective  leisure  for  the  prac- 
tice of  that  allegiance.  They  are  sometimes  enervated  by  it: 
that  must  be  in  continental  countries.  Happily  our  climate 
;i'.  1  our  brave  bloo  I  precipitate  t  he  greater  number  upon  1  he 
hunting-field,  to  do  the  public  service  of  heading  the  chase 
of  the  fox,  with  benefit  to  their  constitutions.  Hence  a  manly 
as  well  as  useful  race  of  little  princes,  and  Willoughby  was 
as  manly  as  any.  He  cultivated  himself,  he  would  not  be 
outdone  in  popular  accomplishments.  Had  the  standard  of 
the  public  taste  been  set  in  philosophy,  and  the  national 
enthusiasm  centred    in    philosophers,  he  would   at    least   have 

worked  at  books.  He  did  work  at  Bcience,  and  had  a  labo- 
ratory. His  admirable  passion  to  excel,  however,  was  chiefly 
directed  in  his  youth  upon  sport ;  and  so  great  was  the  passion 

in  him,  that  it  was  commonly  the  presence  of  rivals  wdiich 
led  him  to  the  declaration  of  love. 

He  knew  himself  nevertheh  ss  to  be  the  most  constant  of 
men  in  his  attachment  to  the  sex.    He  had  never  discouraged 


THE  YOUNG  SIR  WILLOUGI1  BY.  13 

Lsetitia  Dale's  devotion  to  him,  and  even  when  he  followed 
in  the  sweeping  tide  of  the  beautiful  Constantia  Durham 
(whom  Mrs.  Mountstuart  called  'The  Racing  Cutter'),  he 
thought  of  Lastitia,  and  looked  at  her.  She  was  a  shy 
violet. 

Willonghby's  comportment  while  the  showers  of  adulation 
drenched  him  might  be  likened  to  the  composure  of  Indian 
Gods  undergoing  worship,  but  unlike  them  he  reposed  upon 
no  seat  of  amplitude  to  preserve  him  from  a  betrayal  of  in- 
toxication ;  he  had  to  continue  tripping,  dancing,  exactly 
balancing  himself,  head  to  right,  head  to  left,  addressing  his 
idolaters  in  phrases  of  perfect  choiceness.  Tin's  is  only  to 
say,  that  it  is  easier  to  be  a  wooden  idol  than  one  in  the 
flesh  ;  yet  Willoughby  was  equal  to  his  task.  The  little 
prince's  education  teaches  him  that  he  is  other  than  you, 
and  by  virtue  of  the  instruction  he  receives,  and  also  some- 
thing, we  know  not  wdiat,  within,  he  is  enabled  to  maintain 
his  posture  where  you  would  be  tottering.  Urchins  upon 
whose  curly  pates  grey  seniors  lay  their  hands  with  con- 
ventional encomium  and  speculation,  look  older  than  they 
are  immediately,  and  Willoughby  looked  older  than  his 
years,  not  for  want  of  freshness,  but  because  he  felt  that  he 
had  to  stand  eminently  and  correctly  poised. 

Hearing  of  Mrs.  Mountstuart's  word  on  him,  he  smiled 
and  said  :  "  It  is  at  her  service." 

The  speech  was  communicated  to  her,  and  she  proposed 
to  attach  a  dedicatory  strip  of  silk.  And  then  they  came 
together,  and  there  was  wit  and  repartee  suitable  to  the 
electrical  atmosphere  of  the  dancing-room,  on  the  march  to 
a  magical  hall  of  supper.  Willoughby  conducted  Mrs. 
Mountstuart  to  the  supper-table. 

"  Were  I,"  said  she,  "  twenty  years  younger,  I  think  I 
would  marry  you,  to  cure  my  infatuation." 

"  Then  let  me  tell  you  in  advance,  madam,"  said  he, 
"  that  I  will  do  everything  to  obtain  a  new  lease  of  it, 
except  divorce  you." 

They  were  infinitely  wittier,  but  so  much  was  heard  and 
may  be  reported. 

"  It  makes  the  business  of  choosing  a  wife  for  him  super- 
humanly  difficult  !"  Mrs.  Mountstuart  observed,  after  lis- 
tening to  the  praises  she  had  set  going  again  when  the 
ladies  were  weeded  of  us,  in  Lady  Patterne's  Indian  room. 


11  T  ! ' 

l   upon  ■    ■  fchereal 

j  will  <  u  wife  for  himself,"  taid  lii» 


(    [APTEB  III. 

MAM. 


for  the  count]  ted  in  many 

rid  daughterle  subse* 

■   '•  • 

■    i  I  mrham.     She  laughed  at 

•    I.  :  •  :    i   I  );ilr.     She 

D    Mrs.   M  .  and   had    knowp 

I  be    weal!  biesl 
family  had  been  Btrictly  sagaciom 

:  eople," 
[)        im  had  d  she  had  health      d 

>:■     ;i      P 

ham,  \\:i-  ;i  large  landowner  in  1  'i? 

i  man,  Hie- 

Willoughby.     The  father  of 

I  arm]  ,1  adia,  tentnl 

bordering    Pattern© 

and  a  ]  Ber  writii  » 

ti  <>t  t ;  rig  baronel  'a  birl  hday 

■  in-  timid  c 
be  !<  i   i  be  cal  on!  of  her  bag  of  ti 

I  to  her  hero  in  ber 

long  and  dark, 

boot  like  a 

■   look   from   Willonghby.      And  lie 

i  lie  iliil  no!   dance  with 

ly  with   M 

i  WTritford  for  the  final 

La-,  e  l  o  tnnch 

■ 

friar'    bad   entirely    for- 

g  n       !!•    crossed   himself 


CONSTANTLY  DURHAM.  15 

and  crossed  his  bewildered  lady,  and  crossed  everybody 
in  the  figure,  extorting  shouts  of  cordial  laughter  from 
his  cousin  Willoughby.  Be  it  said  that  the  hour  was 
four  in  the  morning,  when  dancers  must  laugh  at  somebody 
if  only  to  refresh  their  feet,  and  the  wit  of  the  hour  ad- 
ministers to  the  wildest  laughter.  Vernon  was  likened  to 
Theseus  in  the  maze,  entirely  dependent  upon  his  Ariadne  ; 
to  a  fly  released  from  a  jam-pot;  to  a  'salvage,'  or  green, 
man  caught  in  a  web  of  nymphs  and  made  to  go  the  paces. 
Willoughby  was  inexhaustible  in  the  happy  similes  he  poured 
out  to  Miss  Durham  across  the  lines  of  Sir  Roger  de  Cover- 
ley,  and  they  were  not  forgotten,  they  procured  him  a  repu- 
tation as  a  convivial  sparkler.  Rumour  went  the  round  that 
he  intended  to  give  Lastitia  to  Vernon  for  good,  when  he 
could  decide  to  take  Miss  Durham  to  himself;  his  generosity 
was  famous;  but  that  decision,  though  the  rope  was  ill  the 
form  of  a  knot,  seemed  reluctant  for  the  conclusive  close 
haul ;  it  preferred  the  state  of  slackness  ;  and  if  he  courted 
Lsetitia  on  behalf  of  his  cousin,  his  cousinly  love  must  have 
been  greater  than  his  passion,  one  had  to  suppose.  He  was 
generous  enough  for  it,  or  for  marrying-  the  portionless  girl 
himself.  There  was  a  story  of  a  brilliant  young  widow  of 
our  aristocracy  who  had  very  nearly  snared  him.  Why 
should  he  object  to  many  into  our  aristocracy  ?  Mrs. 
Mountstuart  asked  him,  and  he  replied,  that  the  girls  of 
that  class  have  no  money,  and  he  doubted  the  quality  of 
their  blood.  He  had  his  etyes  awake.  His  duty  to  his 
House  was  a  foremost  thought  with  him,  and  for  such  a 
reason  he  may  have  been  more  anxious  to  give  the  slim  and 
not  robust  Laetitia  to  Vernon  than  accede  to  his  personal 
inclination.  The  mention  of  the  widow  singularly  offended 
him,  notwithstanding  the  high  rank  of  the  lady  named. 
"  A  widow  ?"  he  said.  "  I !"  He  spoke  to  a  widow  ;  an 
oldish  one  truly  ;  but  his  wrath  at  the  suggestion  of  his 
union  with  a  widow,  led  him  to  be  for  the  moment  oblivious 
of  the  minor  shades  of  good  taste.  Pie  desired  Mrs.  Mount- 
stuart to  contradict  the  story  in  positive  terms.  He  repeated 
his  desire  ;  he  was  urgent  to  have  it  contradicted,  and  said 
again  :  "A  widow!"  straightening  his  whole  figure  to  the 
erectness  of  the  letter  I.  She  was  a  widow  unmarried  a 
second  time,  and  it  has  been  known  of  the  stedfast  women 
who  retain  the  name  of  their  first  husband,  or  do  not  hamper 


16  in 

i      .  •  •'    -  | 

■•■I     !>y    Sir 
:  ■ '    ■      hey 

I  married  -." 

.i!i  their  i 

an    id( 

I ;  .  •    .1    ;.    ■  i  hat 

,  mple  rumour  of   his 

i  mystify  ing. 

>k   a  ca 

proudly  ;it  ease  in  the 

as    he 

iow  the  origin  of 

:i    bad   for  no<    being 

He  wa«  chidd<  □      M  read  h 

•t  i  be  '  the 

ins  marrying  her,  my 

r  thai  he  would  lose  his  chance 

I '  . 

They 
I   i  hen  for  an  example  to  j 

and    an  ling 

■  ;iat   w c  mi  h  content- 

iwii  1 1  :t  1  to  many 
pack-ladei 
children  painfully  rea 

i  - 1  i  1 1  <_r,  a 

•  ry   and  especially 

:    by    it.    the    i 

Sir  Willoughhy,  t  hen, 

her  han  i  of  him  ; 

olitan  i 

■  |itil)]e 

ntia 

!  to  admiration  oi    h  imself,  Ik* 

<  He  stood 

i   violet.     <  'iie  lie 

■    t  have  both  ; 

alike.     But 

icquaintance  with 

an   in'  -         ■■■   mi  the 


CONSTANTIA  DFKTTAM.  17 

sentiments  of  Miss  Dale.  Still  Constantia's  beauty  was  of 
a  kind  to  send  away  beholders  aching.  She  had  the  glory 
of  the  racing  cutter  full  sail  on  a  winning  breeze ;  and  she 
did  not  court  to  win  him,  she  flew.  In  his  more  reflective 
hour  the  attractiveness  of  that  lady  which  held  the  mirror 
to  his  features  was  paramount.  But  he  had  passionate 
sna/tches  when  the  magnetism  of  the  flyer  drew  him  in  her 
"wake.  Further  to  add  to  the  complexity,  he  loved  his 
liberty ;  he  was  princelier  free ;  he  had  more  subjects,  ii/oi  e 
slaves  ;  he  ruled  arrogantly  in  the  world  of  women  ;  he  was 
more  himself.  His  metropolitan  experiences  did  not  answer 
to  his  liking  the  particular  question,  Do  we  bind  the  woman 
down  to  us  idolatrously  by  making  a  wife  of  her  ? 

In  the  midst  of  his  deliberations,  a  report  of  the  hot 
pursuit  of  Miss  Durham,  casually  mentioned  to  him  by  Lady 
Bnsshe,  drew  an  immediate  proposal  from  Sir  Willoughby. 
She  accepted  him,  and  they  were  engaged.  She  had  been 
nibbled  at,  all  but  eaten  up,  while  he  hung  dubitative  ;  and 
though  that  was  the  cause  of  his  winning-  her,  it  offended 
his  niceness.  She  had  not  come  to  him  out  of  cloistral 
purity,  out  of  perfect  radiancy.  Spiritually,  likewise,  was 
he  a  little  prince,  a  despotic  prince.  He  wished  for  her  to 
have  come  to  him  out  of  an  egg-shell,  somewhat  more 
astonished  at  things  than  a  chicken,  but  as  completely 
enclosed  before  he  tapped  the  shell,  and  seeing  him  with  her 
sex's  eyes  first  of  all  men.  She  talked  frankly  of  her  cousins 
and  friends,  young  males.  She  could  have  replied  to  his 
bitter  wish  :  "  Had  you  asked  me  on  the  night  of  your 
twenty-first  birthday,  Willoughby  !"  Since  then  she  had 
been  in  the  dust  of  the  world,  and  he  conceived  his  peculiar 
antipathy,  destined  to  be  so  fatal  to  him,  from  the  earlier 
hom-s  of  his  engagement.  He  was  quaintly  incapable  of  a 
jealousy  of  individuals.  A  young  Captain  Oxford  had  been 
foremost  in  the  swarm  pursuing  Constantia.  Willoughby 
thought  as  little  of  Captain  Oxford  as  he  did  of  Vernon 
Whitford.  His  enemy  was  the  world,  the  mass,  which 
confounds  us  in  a  lump,  which  has  breathed  on  her  whom 
we  have  selected,  whom  we  cannot,  can  never,  rub  quite 
clear  of  her  contact  with  the  abominated  crowd.  The  plea- 
sure of  the  world  is  to  bowl  down  our  soldierlv  letter  I;  to 
encroach  on  our  identity,  soil  our  niceness.  To  begin  to 
think  is  the  beginning  of  disgust  of  the  world. 


Is  Tin    1  (JOIST. 

n  ^  the  engagement  was  published,  all  the  count) 
bad  n.-t   been  acbance  For  Lsetitia,  and  Mrs. 
insou  bnmbly  remarked,  in  an  attitude  of 
■  |.  ;   qoI  a  witch.""     Lady  Busshe  could  claim 
Id  the  event.     Laetitia  was  of  the 
pinion  as  the  county.     She  had  looked  up,  but  not 
She  had  only  looked  up  to  the  brightest,  and, 
could  she  have  hoped  1     She  was 
mpanion  of  a  sick  father,   whose  inveterate 
.  thai  she  wsuld  live  to  rule  at  Patterne 
I  in  proportion  as  he  seemed  to 
•  u  it.  of  theengagemi  ut  merely 

•  c  invalids   cling  obstinately   to   their 
I    Sir  Willoughby  in  the  society  of 
when  i  ■  '  revived  to  a  sprightly 

ly.     Indeed,  as  big  boy  and  little  girl, 
:   old.     Willoughby  had  been  a 
if  him  at   t be  Hall,  in  a 
nd  long  11a  sen 
the  image  of  her  soul's  most 
I  ■  had —         did  not  sup; 

i  are  to  bow  to  him  ;  so  sab- 
fuller  happiness  for  her  to  think 

be  circum 

appear  to  resemble  the  ecstacy 

It    is  a  form  of  the  passion 

need  nol    marvel  that  a 

t  to     eep  them  in  their  lofty 

i|  berw  ise  to  look   up  to  Y     We 

-lights   it"   t  hey  were  levelled 

-    wort  h    while  for  here 

■  long  as  women's  general 

man  shall  be  preserved.     Purity 

i         may  justly  cry  for  attraction. 

hter  than  in  the  universal  bearing 

ipon  a  little  prince,  one  who  has 

virtues    in    his    pay,   and    can    practise  them 

■elf  to  make  himself  unsightly.     Let 

■     ■   be  bj  tonished  ai  -heir  Gods,  if 

ha  1  better  continue  to  worship. 

'•  Miss  Durham  at  Patterne 

Sh<    admired   the  pair.      She  had  a 


COXSXANTIA  DUEIIAM.  19 

wish  to  witness  the  bridal  ceremony.  She  was  looking 
forward  to  the  day  with  that  mixture  of  eagerness  and  with- 
holding which  we  have  as  we  draw  ni^h  the  disenchanting 
termination  of  an  enchanting  romance,  when  Sir  Willoughby 
met  her  on  a  Sunday  morning,  as  she  crossed  his  park 
solitarily  to  church.  They  were  within  ten  days  of  the 
appointed  ceremony.  He  should  have  been  away  at  Miss 
Durham's  end  of  the  county.  He  had,  Lastitia  knew,  ridden 
over  to  her  the  day  before ;  but  there  he  was  ;  and  very 
unwontedly,  quite  surprisingly,  he  presented  his  arm  to 
conduct  Leetitia  to  the  church-door,  and  talked  and  laughed 
in  a  way  that  reminded  her  of  a  hunting  gentleman  she  had 
seen  once  rising  to  his  feet,  staggering  from  an  ugly  fall 
across  hedge  and  fence  into  one  of  the  lanes  of  her  short 
winter  walks:  "All's  well,  all  sound,  never  better,  only  a 
scratch !"  the  gentleman  had  said,  as  he  reeled  and  pressed 
a  bleeding  head.  Sir  Willonghby  chattered  of  his  felicity 
in  meeting  her.  "  I  am  really  wonderfully  lucky,"  he  said, 
and  he  said  that  and  other  things  over  and  over,  incessantly 
talking,  and  telling  an  anecdote  of  county  occurrences,  and 
laughing  at  it  with  a  mouth  that  would  not  widen.  He 
went  on  talking  in  the  church  porch,  and  murmuring  softly 
some  steps  up  the  aisle.,  passing  the  pews  of  Mrs.  Moi  nt- 
etuart  Jenkinson  and  Lady  Busshe.  Of  course  he  was 
entertaining,  but  what  a  strangeness  it  was  to  Lsetitia  ! 
His  face  would  have  been  half  under  an  antique  bonnet.  It 
came  very  close  to  hers,  and  the  scrutiny  he  bent  on  her  wa3 
most  solicitous. 

After  the  service,  he  avoided  the  great  ladies  by  saunter- 
ing up  to  within  a  yard  or  two  of  where  she  sat ;  he  crave  1 
her  hand  on  his  arm  to  lead  her  forth  by  the  park  entrance 
to  the  church,  all  the  while  bending  to  her,  discoursing 
rapidly,  appearing*  radiantly  interested  in  her  quiet  replies, 
with  fits  of  intentness  that  stared  itself  out  into  dim  abstrac- 
tion. She  hazarded  the  briefest  replies  for  fear  of  not  having 
understood  him.  • 

One  question  she  asked  :  "  Miss  Durham  is  well,  I  trust  ?" 

And  he  answered  :  "  Durham  ?"  and  said  :  "  There  is  no 
Miss  Durham  to  my  knowledge." 

The  impression  he  left  with  her  was,  that  he  might 
yesterday  during  his  ride  have  had  an  accident  and  fallen  on 
bis  head. 

c2 


1  1! 

She  would  1m  bad  not  known  him  f'>r 

bave  it  thought 
bappened  to  him. 

||  :■    :i    walk         Jlc 

in-    hod   pi  •   it,  and  l>  iled  to  her 

a  promise  he  bad  not  heard, 
•   him   '  her  walk.     So  i 

more  she  was  in  i!i«-  park  with  Sir  Willoughby,  listenio 

\    word  sent    from   her 

I   him.     "  1  am  d  elf,"  w  I  be  remarks 

bed  on  1        beauty  of  tho 
I '  1  [all  t  tify  him. 

He  did  i  ik   "t"   Miss  Durham,  and  Laetitia  became 

•  ion  her  i 

hby  promise  !    Lstit  in   I  hat  he 
ild  call  Be  did  i  me ;  and  -"iild 

■  her  hi  I  be  tale. 

I  •  He  bad  ridden  to  Sir  John 

1 '  a  distai  thirty  miles,  to  hear,  on 

bad  quit  t<  d  her  fat  ber's  house 

a  \  i-it   to  an  aunt   in   London,  and 

-  t  he  w  i  i  laptain  <  Oxford, 

her  broi  bera      A  letter  from 

bride  a  V\  b  the  Hal]      He  had  ridden 

iring  how  be  used  his  horse  in  order  to 

ftly  home,  Ful  of  himself  was  he  under  the 

rible  blow.     That    was  the  night   of  Saturday.     On   the 

follow  Sunday  ,  he  met   Let  it  ia  in  liis  park,  Le  I 

led  h« •:  i   the  day  after  that,  pre- 

ime  weeks,  was  walking  with 

her  in  full  view  of  t he  cs  road. 

He  bad  ind«  very  fortunately,  if  not  con- 

siderately,  liberated  by   Miss    Durham.      He,  as  a   man  of 

the  init  iative,  but  I  he  frenzy  of 

•     -  ich  a  ■  ;    and  how 

from  it  had  been  shown  to  the  world.     Miss 

I'     liam.  tl  ■    was  hie  mother's  choice  f<>r  him, 

clinations  ;    w  hich  had  finally  subdued 
I  Patten  (  quently,    there    was    no    longer  an 

lough  bj  M  is  j   Dale     1?  was  a 

I  try,  and  it   put  most  people  in  good 

with  tl  ■  favourite,  as  his  choice  of  a  por. 


L.ETITIA  DALE.  21 

tionless  girl  of  no  position  would  not  have  done  without 
the  shock  of  astonishment  at  the  conduct  of  Miss  Durham, 
and  the  desire  to  feel  that  so  prevailing  a  gentleman  was  not 
in  any  degree  pitiable.  Constantia  was  called  "  that  mad 
thing."  Lostitia  broke  forth  in  novel  and  abundant  merits  ; 
and  one  of  the  chief  points  of  requisition  in  relation  to 
Patterne — a  Lady  Willoughby  who  would  entertain  well 
and  animate  the  deadness  of  the  Hall,  became  a  certainty 
when  her  gentleness  and  liveliness  and  exceeding  cleverness 
were  considered.  She  was  often  a  visitor  at  the  Hall  by 
Lady  Patterne's  express  invitation,  and  sometimes  on  these 
occasions  Willoughby  was  there  too,  superintending  the 
fitting  up  of  his  laboratory,  though  he  was  not  at  home  to 
the  county;  it  was  not  expected  that  he  should  be  yet.  He 
had  taken  heai-tily  to  the  pursuit  of  science,  and  spoke  of 
little  else.  Science,  he  said,  was  in  our  days  the  sole  object 
worth  a  devoted  pursuit.  But  the  sweeping  remark  could 
hardly  apply  to  Lsetitia,  of  whom  he  was  the  courteous 
quiet  wooer  you  behold  when  a  man  has  broken  loose  from 
an  unhappy  tangle  to  return  to  the  lady  of  his  first  and 
strongest  affections. 

Some  months  of  homely  courtship  ensued,  and  then,  the 
decent  interval  prescribed  by  the  situation  having  elapsed, 
Sir  Willoughbv  Patterne  left  his  native  land  on  a  tour  of 
the  globe. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
LjETITIA  dale. 


That  was  another  surprise  to  the  county. 

Let  us  not  inquire  into  the  feelings  of  patiently  starving 
women  :  they  must  obtain  some  sustenance  of  their  own, 
since,  as  you  perceive,  they  live  ;  evidently  they  are  not  in 
need  of  a  great  amount  of  nourishment ;  and  we  may  set 
them  down  for  creatures  with  a  rushlight  of  animal  fire  to 
warm  them.  They  cannot  have  much  vitality  who  are  so 
little  exclamatory.  A  corresponding  sentiment  of  patient 
Compassion,  akin  to  scorn,  is  provoked  by  persons  having 
the   opportunity  for  pathos  and  declining  to   use  it.       Tb 


j2  tee  egoist. 

pul,  m  was  open  to  Laatitia  for  several  weeks,  and  had 

run  to  if  to  bewail  herself,  Bhe  would  have  been  cherished 
Iness  for  a  country  drama.      There  would  have 
i  Dsi  her,  cold  people,  critical  of  her  preten- 
from  an  unrecognized  sphere  to  be  mistress  of 
Hall:    but   there   would   also   have  been   a  party 
•    Sir    Willoughby,    composed   of  the   two   or   three 
tired  of  the  yoke,  which  are  to  be  found  in 
1  1  when  there  is  a  stir,  a  larger  number  of  born  sym- 

ready  to  yield  the  tear  for  the  tear,  and  here 
maritan  soul  prompt  to  succour  poor  humanity 
in  d  The  opportunity  passed  undramatized.   Lsetitia 

al    church    with   a  face  mildly    devout, 
lustom,  and  she  accepted  invitations  to  the 
at   the  reading  of  W^illoughby's  letters  to 
My.  and  fed    on  dry  husks  of    him  wherein  her  name 
•    mentioned;    never  one  note  of  the  summoning  call 
for  pathos  did   this  young  lady  blow.      So,  very  soon  the 
pul  closed.     She  had,  under  the  fresh  interpreta- 

tion a  spirit  to  be  Lady  Willoughby  of 
;'l    ii"t    have  entertained    becomingly;    he 
■:  thai    the  '_rirl  was  not   the  match  for  him  in 
:  he    went    to    conquer  the  remainder    of    a 

•  ichment,  no  longer  extremely  disturbing, 
the  tenour  of  his  letters:    really  incomparable 
he   and    Mrs.    Mounts tuart    Jeukinson 
them.      Sir  "Willoughby  appeared  as  a 
ng  representative   island  lord  in  these  letters 
despatched   from   the   principal  cities  of  the 
United  St  America.      Ee  would  give  them  a  sketch 

ir   deni<  cousins,"    he    said.      Such    cousins! 

ill    have   been    in    the  Marines.      He    carried 
dard    over   that    Continent,  and  by  simply 
n   idi  a  of  the  results  of   the 
family  and  friends  at  home.      He  was 
in    the    ir  incongruously  grouping.      The 

ty  under  the  stars  and  stripes  was  pre- 
manner.     Equality!     Reflections  came  occa- 
of  ours  are  highly  amusing.     I 
the  d<  of  the   Roundheads.     Now  and 

I  to  old  d  ■  differences,  in  perfect  good 

tamper.  .rway;  they  theirs,  in  the  apparent 


L^TJTIA  DALE.  23 

belief  that  Republicanism  operates  remarkable  changes  in 
human  nature.  Vernon  tries  hard  to  think  it  does.  The 
upper  ten  of  our  cousins  are  the  Infernal  of  Paris.  The  rest 
of  them  is  Radical  England,  as  far  as  I  am  acquainted  with 
that  section  of  my  country." — Where  we  compared,  they 
were  absurd ;  where  we  contrasted,  they,  were  monstrous. 
The  contrast  of  Vernon's  letters  with  Willoughby's  was  just 
as  extreme.  You  could  hardly  have  taken  them  for  relatives 
travelling  together,  or  Vernon  Whitford  for  a  born  and  bred 
Englishman.  The  same  scenes  furnished  by  these  two  pens 
might  have  been  sketched  in  different  hemispheres.  Vernon 
had  no  irony.  He  had  nothing  of  Willoughby's  epistolary 
creative  power,  which,  causing  his  family  and  friends  to 
exclaim,  "How  like  him  that  is!"  conjured  them  across  the 
broad  Atlantic  to  behold  and  clap  hands  at  his  lordliness. 
They  saw  him  distinctly,  as  with  the  naked  eye :  a  word,  a 
turn  of  the  pen,  or  a  word  unsaid,  offered  the  picture  of  him 
in  America,  Japan,  China,  Australia,  nay,  the  Continent  of 
Europe,  holding  an  English  review  of  his  Maker's  grotesques. 
Vernon  seemed  a  sheepish  fellow,  without  stature  abroad, 
glad  of  a  compliment,  grateful  for  a  dinner,  endeavouring 
sadly  to  digest  all  he  saw  and  heard.  But  one  was  a  Pat- 
terne ;  the  other  a  Whitford.  One  had  genius ;  the  other 
pottered  after  him  with  the  title  of  student.  One  was  the 
English  gentleman  wherever  he  went ;  the  other  was  a  new 
kind  of  thing,  nondescript,  produced  in  England  of  late,  and 
not  likely  to  come  to  much  good  himself,  or  do  much  good  to 
the  country.  Vernon's  dancing  in  America  was  capitally 
described  by  Willoughby.  "  Adieu  to  our  cousins  !"  the 
latter  wrote  on  his  voyage  to  Japan.  "  I  may  possibly  have 
had  some  vogue  in  their  ball-rooms,  and  in  showing  them 
an  English  seat  on  horseback:  T  must  resign  myself  if  I  have 
not  been  popular  among  them.  I  could  not  sing  their 
national  song — if  a  congery  of  States  be  a  nation — and  I 
must  confess  I  listened  with  frigid  politeness  to  their  sing- 
ing of  it.  A  great  people,  no  doubt.  Adieu  to  them.  I 
have  had  to  tear  old  Vernon  away.  He  had  serious  thoughts 
of  settling,  means  to  correspond  with  some  of  them."  On 
the  whole,  forgetting  two  or  more  'traits  of  insolence'  on 
the  part  of  his  hosts,  which  he  cited,  Willoughby  escaped 
pretty  comfortably.  The  President  had  been,  consciously  or 
not,  uncivil,  but  one  knew  his  origin  !     Upon  these  interjec- 


•  .  Britannia 

:    I, nil    in  mildish    way  to    lash 

-  r   Willoughby    Patten  scd 

i  .\  er  after  he  spoke 

' . .  w  .1  b  a  ta.il  tucki  'I  in 

w  ere  pn  Stable  to  himself.     The  fact 

ae  to  g]  -  and  must  be 

•.  ill  pr  I         en  forefend  a 

\\  L  to  hi  ii'  1  afti  :   an  absence  of 

fair  April  morning,  the  last  of  the  month, 
In-  park  palings,  and  by  the  luck  of  thii 
I.  tof  Ins  fi  iends  w  hom  I  She  was 

i  Geld  with  a  hand  of  Bchool-children, 

vilJ  lli>-  r  the  morrow  May-day.    He  sprang 

.  and  Beized   her  hand.     "  Lsetitia  Dale!"  he 

ted.      "Your  name  is  sweet  English  music! 

The  anxious  question  permitted  him  to 

eply  in  hei  Be  found  the  man  he  songht  there, 

1  liim  ]  ately,  and  let  her  go,  saying,  "  I  could 

a  lovelier  home-scene  to  welcome  me 

and    these    children    flower-gathering.      I    don't 

in  chance.     It    was  decreed   that   we  should  meet. 

i  tliink 

ntly  of  her  gladness. 

II-  cl  her  to  distribute  a   gold  coin  among' the  little 

i  !".'!•  tin'  names  of  some  of  them,  and  repeated, 

Charlotte — only  the  Christian  names,  pray  ! 

a  will  bring  your  garlands  to  the  Hall  to- 

■  i  mind,  early!  no  slugabeds  to-morrow; 

I  It.. wmd,  Latitia  ?"     lit-  smiled  in  apology 

•  .  and  murmured  with  rapture,  "  The  green 

atry    i-  unsurpassed.     It  is  wonderful. 

i  an  I  he  baked,  if  you  would  appreciate  it. 

a-   I   have  done — for  how 

"II    si  ■  m     to  me  that   length.     At 
older.     I! .;t   looking  a'  i   could 

Von   have  not    cl  You  are 

■  I  am  bound  t<>  hope  v,,.     r  shall 

i  talk   of,   much    to   tell    you.       I 


L^TITIA  DALE.  25 

shall  hasten  to  call  on  your  father.  I  have  specially  to 
speak  with  him.  I — what  happiness  this  is,  Lsetitia  !  But 
I  must  not  forget  I  have  a  mother.  Adieu  ;  for  some  hours 
— not  for  many !" 

He  pressed  her  hand  again.     He  was  gone. 

She  dismissed  the  children  to  their  homes.  Plucking 
primroses  was  hard  labour  now — a  dusty  business.  She 
could  have  wished  that  her  planet  had  not  descended  to 
earth,  his  presence  agitated  her  so ;  but  his  enthusiastic 
patriotism  was  like  a  shower  that  in  the  Spring  season  of 
the  year  sweeps  against  the  hard-binding  East  and  melts  the 
air,  and  brings  out  new  colours,  makes  life  flow ;  and  her 
thoughts  recurred  in  wonderment  to  the  behaviour  of  Con- 
stantia  Durham.  That  was  Lsetitia's  manner  of  taking  up 
her  weakness  once  more.  She  could  almost  have  reviled 
the  woman  who  had  given  this  beneficent  magician,  this 
pathetic  exile,  of  the  aristocratic  sunburnt  visage  and 
deeply-scrutinizing  eyes,  cause  for  grief.  How  deeply  his 
eyes  could  read  !  The  starveling  of  patience  awoke  to  the 
idea  of  a  feast.  The  sense  of.  hunger  came  with  it,  and 
hope  came,  and  patience  fled.  She  would  have  rejected 
hope  to  keep  patience  nigh  her  ;  but  surely  it  cannot  always 
be  Winter !  said  her  reasoning  blood,  and  we  must  excuse 
her  as  best  we  can  if  she  was  assured  by  her  restored 
warmth  that  Willoughby  came  in  the  order  of  the  revolving 
seasons,  marking  a  long  Winter  past.  He  had  specially  to 
speak  with  her  father,  he  had  said.  What  could  that  mean  ? 
What  but !     She  dared  not  phrase  it  or  view  it. 

At  their  next  meeting  she  was  "  Miss  Dale." 

A  week  later  he  was  closeted  with  her  father. 

Mr.  Dale,  in  the  evening  of  that  pregnant  day,  eulogized 
Sir  Willoughby  as  a  landlord.  A  new  lease  of  the  cottage 
was  to  be  granted  him  on  the  old  terms,  he  said.  Except 
that  Sir  Willoughby  had  congratulated  him  in  the  posses- 
sion of  an  excellent  daughter,  their  interview  was  one  of 
landlord  and  tenant,  it  appeared  ;  and  Lastitia  said,  "  So  we 
shall  not  have  to  leave  the  cottage  ?"  in  a  tone  of  satisfac- 
tion, wdiile  she  quietly  gave  a  wrench  to  the  neck  of  the 
young  hope  in  her  breast.  At  night  her  diary  received  the 
line  :  "  This  day  I  was  a  fool.     To-morrow  ?" 

To-morrow  and  many  days  after  there  were  dashes 
instead  of  words. 


TIIK  EGOIST. 

elled  back  to  her  sullenly.     As  we  must  have 

1.  and  she  had  ool  bing  else,  she  took  to  that 

nd  it  dryer  than  of  yore.     It  is  a  composing  but  a 

I        dead  are  patient,  and  we  get  a  certaiu 

•     them  in  feeding  on  it   onintermittingly  overlong. 

with   the  fallen  leaf   in  them  pleaded 

justify  her  idol  for  not  looking  down  on 

■  him  when  he  was   :it    the   Hall.      He 
change.     He  was  exceedingly  gentle  and 

than  once  she  discovered  his  eyes  dwelling 

■  ••ii  hi'  looked   hurriedly  at  his  mother,  and 
;  in  shut   her  mind   from  thinking  lest  thinking 

ii    ami    hope   a    guilty   spectre.      But  had    his 
I  tn  hi  3he  could  nol  avoid  asking  her- 

■  of  the  globe   had   been  undertaken  at   his 

shr    wis    an    ambitious    lady,    in  failing 
wished    to  have   him  living  with  her  at 
■  1  t.>  agree  that  he  did  wisely  to  reside  in 
I 

Sir  Willoughby,  in  the  quiet  manner  which  was 

rmed    her  that   he   had  become  a  country 

;  he  had  abandoned  London,  he  loathed  it  as  the 

individual     man.      He    intended    to    sit 

rad  have  hi-  cousin  Vernon  Whitford 

•11  in  managing  them,  he  said;  and  very  amusing 

n  of  his  cousin's  shifts  to  live  by   litera- 

1  add  enough  to  a  beggarly  income  to  get  his  usual 

ear  in  the  Alps.      Previous  to  his  great 

.  W  illoagbby  had  spoken  of  Wrnnn's  judgement  with 

•   :    nor    was    it   entirely   unknown  that   Vernon    had 

family   pride  by  some  extravagant  act.     But 

■  their  return   he  acknowledged  Vernon's  talents,  and 

I  anable  to  do  without  him. 

rrangemenl  <;ave  Lsetitia  a  companion  for  her 
!  nanism  was  a  sour  business  to  Willoughby, 
iiimi  of  the  word  indicated  a  willingness  for 

■  •  on  horseback  ;  but  she  had  no  horse, 
e   he  hunted,  Laetitia  and  Vernon   walked,  and 

_hi  oiirhood    speculated  on  the  circumstances,  until 
Eleanor  and    Isabel    Patterne  engaged  her  more 
•lv   for  carriage   exercise,  and   Sir  Willoughby  was 
1  riding  them. 


L^TITIA  DALE.  27 

A  real  and  sunny  pleasure  befell  Lretitia,  in  the  establish- 
ment of  young-  Cross  jay  Patterne  under  her  roof  ;  the  son  of 
the  lieutenant,  now   captain,  of  Marines ;  a  boy  of  twelve, 
with  the  sprights  of  twelve  boys  in  him,  for  whose  board  and 
lodgement  Vernon  provided  by  arrangement  with  her  father. 
Vernon  was  one  of  your  men  that  have  no  occupation  for 
their  money,  no  bills  to  pay  for  repair  of  their  property,  and 
are  insane  to  spend.     He  had  heard  of  Captain  Patterne's 
large  family,  and  proposed  to  have  his   eldest  boy  at  the 
Hall,  to  teach  him ;  but  Willoughby  declined  to  house  the 
son  of  such  a  father,  predicting  that  the  boy's  hair  would  be 
red,   his    skin   eruptive,    and   his   practices  detestable.     So 
Vernon,  having  obtained  Mr.  Dale's  consent  to  accommodate 
this  youth,  stalked  off  to  Devonport,  and  brought  back  a 
rosy-cheeked,  round-bodied  rogue  of  a  boy,  who  fell  upon 
meats  and  puddings,  and  defeated  them,  with  a  captivating 
simplicity  in  his  confession  that  he  had  never  had  enough  to 
eat  in  his  life.   He  had  gone  through  a  training  for  a  plentiful 
table.     At  first,   after  a  number  of  helps,  young  Crossjay 
would  sit  and  sigh  heavily,  in  contemplation  of  the  unfinished 
dish.     Subsequently,  he  told  his  host  and  hostess  that  he 
had  two  sisters  above  his  own  age,  and  three  brothers  and 
two  sisters  younger  than  he :  "  All  hungry !"  said  the  boy. 
His  pathos  was  most  comical.     It  was  a  good  month  before 
he  could  see  pudding  taken  away  from  table  without  a  sigh 
of  regret  that  he  could  not  finish  it  as  deputy  for  the  Devon- 
port  hou*<4iold.     The  pranks  of  the  little  fellow,  and   his 
revel  in   a  country  life,  and  muddy  wildness  in  it,  amused 
La?titia  from  morning  to  night.     She,  when  she  had  caught 
him,  taught  him  in  the  morning ;  Vernon,  favoured  by  the 
chase,    in    the    afternoon.       Young     Crossjay    would    have 
enlivened  any  household.     He  was  not  only  indolent,  he  was 
opposed  to  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  through  the  medium 
of  books,  and  would  say :  "  But  I  don't  want  to  I"  in  a  tone 
to  make  a  logician  thoughtful.     Kature  was  very  strong  in 
him.     He  had,  on  each  return  of  the  hour  for  instruction,  to 
be  plucked  out  of  the  earth,  rank  of  the  soil,  like  a  root,  for 
the  exercise  of  his  big  round  headpiece  on  those  tyrannous 
puzzles.     But  the  habits  of  birds,  and  the  place  for  their 
eggs,  and  the  management  of  rabbits,  and  the  tickling  of 
fish,  and  poaching  joys  with  combative  boys  of  the  district, 
and  how  to  wheedle  a  cook  for  a  luncheon  for  a  whole  day  in 


TH  tST. 

):        in  knew  of  his  greai  nature.     His  passion  for 
•  leans  of  screwing  his  attention  to 
,  1  begun  to  nnderstand  thai  the  desert  had 
:   to  : 1 1 1 ; i ■" 1 1   midshipman's  rank,     lie  boasted 
:   father,  and,  chancing  to  be  near  the 
Vernon  and   Lsetitia  of  his  father, 
|,-,1  m  qtu  stion  close  to  his  hear!  ;  and  he  put  it 
.  following:  "  My  father's  the  one  to  lead  an 
'   when   he  paused:   "I   Ray,  Mr.   Whitford,  Sir  Wil- 
rind    t<<    me,   ami    gives    me    crown-pieces,  why 
In  t    In-   see  my   father,  ami   my   lather  came  here  ten 
miles  in  tin'  rain  to  Bee  him.  and  had  to  walk  ten  miles  back, 
:'  an  inn  r" 
The  only  r  to  be  given   was,  that  Sir  Wi  Hough  by 

been  at    h  "Oh!   my  father  saw  him, 

Willoughby   said    he   was  not    at    home,"  the  boy 
producing  an  odd  ring  in  the  ear  by  his  repetition  of 
in   the  -ami'  voice  as    the   apology,  plainly 
Vernon  told    Lsetitia,  however,  that  the 
•  d  an  explanation  of  Sir  Willoughby. 
Qnliki  orse   of  the  adage,   it  was  easier  to  compel 

to  drink  ol  the  waters  of  instruction  than  to 
the  blink.      His  heart  was  not  so  antagonistic  as 
.  and   by  degrees,  owing  to  a  proper  mixture  of 
and  cajolery,  he  imbibed.     lie  was  whistling  at 
.'s  windows   after  a  day  of  wicked   truancy,  on  an 
I  night,  and  reported  adventures  over  the  supper  sup- 
!  to  him.     Lsetitia  entered  the  kitchen  with  a  reproving 
r.      He  jumped   t<>  kiss  her,  and  went  on  chattering 
n   miles  distant,  where  he  had  seen  Sir  Wil- 
1  •  ding  with   a   young    lady.     The  impossibility  that 

mid  have  goi  so  far  on  foot  made  Lsetitia  doubtful 
until  she  heard  thai  a   gentleman  had  taken 
on  the  road  in  i  and   had  driven  him  to  a  farm 

if  bii'ds'  eggs  and  stuffed  birds  of  every 
kind,  I  ers,  yaffles,  black  woodpeckers,  g<»at- 

th     than     head,     with    dusty,     dark- 
likemoths;  all  very  circumstantial.     Still,  in 
inn.  and    ride  back  by  rail  at  the 
the   tale    seemed    lietitious  to  Laetitia 
!>'|  bow  that   he  had  stood  to  -alute  on  the 
nd  taken  off  his  cap  to  Sir  Willoughby, 


■LMTITIA  DALE.  29 

and  Sir  Willoughby  Lad  passed  him,  not  noticing  him, 
though  the  young  lady  did,  and  looked  back  and  nodded. 
The  hue  of  truth  "was  in  that  picture. 

Strange  eclipse,  when  the  hue  of  truth  comes  shadowing 
over  our  bright  ideal  planet.  It  will  not  seem  the  planet's 
fault,  but  truth's.  Reality  is  the  offender;  delusion  our 
treasure  that  we  are  robbed  of.  Then  begins  with  us  the 
term  of  wilful  delusion,  and  its  necessary  accompaniment  of 
the  disgust  of  reality  ;  exhausting  the  heart  much  more  than 
patient  endurance  of  starvation. 

Hints  were  dropping  about  the  neighbourhood ;  the  hedge- 
ways  twittered,  the  tree-tops  cawed.  Mrs.  Mountstuart 
Jenkinson  was  loud  on  the  subject:  "  Patterne  is  to  have  a 
mistress  at  last,  you  say  ?  But  there  never  was  a  doubt  of 
his  marrying— he  must  marry;  and,  so  long  as  he  does  not 
marry  a  foreign  woman,  we  have  no  cause  to  complain.  He 
met  her  at  Cherriton.  Both  were  struck  at  the  same  moment. 
Her  father  is,  I  hear,  some  sort  of  learned  man  ;  money  ;  no 
land.  ~No  house  either,  I  believe.  People  who  spend  half 
their  time  on  the  Continent.  They  are  now  for  a  year  at 
Upton  Park.  The  very  girl  to  settle  down  and  entertain 
when  she  does  think  of  settling.  Eighteen,  perfect  manners; 
you  need  not  ask  if  a  beauty.  Sir  Willoughby  will  have  his 
dues.  We  must  teach  her  to  make  amends  to  him — but 
don't  listen  to  Lady  Busshe !  He  was  too  young  at  twenty- 
three  or  twenty-four.  No  young  man  is  ever  jilted  ;  he  is 
allowed  to  escape.  A  young  man  married  is  a  fire-eater 
bound  over  to  keep  the  peace ;  if  he  keeps  it  he  worries  it. 
At  thirty-one  or  thirty-two  he  is  ripe  for  his  command, 
because  he  knows  how  to  bend.  And  Sir  Willoughby  is  a 
splendid  creature,  only  wanting  a  wife  to  complete  him.  For 
a  man  like  that  to  go  on  running  about  would  never  do. 
Soberly — no!  It  would  soon  be  g*etting  ridiculous.  He  has 
been  no  worse  than  other  men,  probably  better — infinitely 
more  excusable ;  but  now  we  have  him,  and  it  was  time  we 
should.  I  shall  see  her  and  study  her,  sharply,  you  may  be 
sure;  though  I  fancy  I  can  rely  on  his  judgement." 

In  confirmation  of  the  swelling  buzz,  the  Bev.  Dr.  Middle- 
ton  and  his  daughter  paid  a  flying  visit  to  the  Hall,  where 
they  were  seen  only  by  the  members  of  the  Patterne  family. 
Young  Crossjay  had  a  short  conversation  with  Miss  Middle. 
ton,  and  ran  to  the  cottage  full  of  her — she  loved  the  navy 


TBI    K'.olST. 

;    a  She   had    a  smile  of  very  pleasant 

,.,.     The  young  lady  was  out- 
tall,  elegant,  livelj  ;  and  painted  as  carry- 
Bag.     With   her  smile  of  'very   pleasant 
:  qoI  bul  be  winning. 
\.  of  her  father,  a  scholar  of  high  repnte ; 

scholar  of  an  independent  fortune.     His  maturer 
Middleton  grew  poetic,  or  he  described 
:  a  poetic  ear:  M  She  gives  you  an  idea 
Echo.  Dr.  Middleton  has  one  of  the  grandest 
.  ad." 
"What  ie  her  Christian  name ?"  said  Laetitia. 
He  thought  her  Christian  aame  was  Clara. 
I.    ■  •  ed  and  walked  through  the  day  conceiving 

..ii    Echo,  the  swift    wild  spirit.  Clara  byname, 
far  half-circle  by  the  voice  it  is  roused  to 
than  beautiful,  high  above  drawing-room 
the  colours  of  the  sky;  and  if,  at  the  same  time, 
i  of  loveable  smiling,  could   a  man  resist  herr1 
title  of  .Mountain  Echo  in  any  mind,  a  young 
•    be  Bingularly  spiritualized.     Her  father  doated 
id.     Who  would  not  ?     It  seemed  an  addi- 
t        .    cruelty  that    the  grace  of  a  poetical  attractiveness 
round  her,  for  this  was  robbing  Lrctitia  of  some 
.   Little  fortune,  mystical  though  that  might  be. 
man   like  Sir  Willoughby  had  claims  on  poetry,  pos- 
:    i  evi  py  manly  grace;  and  to  think  that  .Miss 
won  him  by  virtue  of  something  native  to  her 

'       -tii-ally,    touched     Latitia    with    a   faint 

relationship  to  the  chosen  girl.     '"What  is  in  me, 

-  on  her.''     It  decked  b<  r  pride  to  think  so,  as  a  wreath 

acouraged  her  imagination  to  broo  I 

,  and  invested  her  di  Lly  with  romantic  charms, 

:  :  the  ascetic  zealot  hugs  his  share  of  heavi  n 

his   hair  shirt  and  scour 

to  glorify  ( llara.     Through  that 

her  comprehension  of  the  spirit  of  Sir 

ich  as  I  !lara,  she  was  Linked  to 

fidelity  :  0U8  exaltation: 

rt  will  distort   the  brain,  and  in  the  world 
■•  ill   put  him,  should   b<  aigh,  to 


lj:titia  dale.  31 

its  own  furnace-test,  and  get  a  clear  brain  out  of  a  burnt 
heart.  She  was  frequently  at  the  Hall,  helping  to  nurse 
Lady  Pa tt erne.  Sir  Willoughbj  had  hitherto  treated  her 
as  a  dear  insignificant  friend,  to  whom  it  was  unnecessary 
that  he  should  mention  the  object  of  his  rides  to  Upton  Park. 
He  had,  however,  in  the  contemplation  of  what  he  was  gain- 
ing, fallen  into  anxiety  about  what  he  might  be  losing.  She 
belonged  to  his  brilliant  youth  ;  her  devotion  was  the  bride 
of  his  youth  ;  he  was  a  man  who  lived  backwards  almost  as 
intensely  as  in  the  present ;  and,  notwithstanding  Laetitia's 
praiseworthy  zeal  in  attending  on  his  mother,  he  suspected 
some  unfaithfulness :  hardly  without  cause :  she  had  not 
looked  paler  of  late,  her  eyes  had  not  reproached  him ;  the 
secret  of  the  old  days  between  them  had  been  as  little  con- 
cealed as  it  was  exposed.  She  might  have  buried  it,  after 
the  way  of  women,  whose  bosoms  can  be  tombs,  if  we  and 
the  world  allow  them  to  be  ;  absolutely  sepulchres,  where 
you  lie  dead,  ghastly.  Even  if  not  dead  and  horrible  to  think 
of,  you  may  be  lying  cold,  somewhere  in  a  corner.  Even  if 
embalmed,  you  may  not  be  much  visited.  And  how  is  the 
world  to  know  yoa  are  embalmed  ?  You  are  no  better  than 
a  rotting  wretch  to  the  world  that  does  not  have  peeps  of  you 
in  the  woman's  breast,  and  see  lights  burning  and  an  occa- 
sional exhibition  of  the  services  of  worship.  There  are  women 
— tell  us  not  of  her  of  Ephesus !— that  have  embalmed  you, 
and  have  quitted  the  world  to  keep  the  tapers  alight,  and  a 
stranger  comes,  and  they,  who  have  your  image  before  them, 
will  suddenly  blow  out  the  vestal  flames  and  treat  you  as 
dust  to  fatten  the  garden  of  their  bosoms  for  a  fresh  flower 
of  love.  Sir  Willoughby  knew  it ;  he  had  experience  of  it 
in  the  form  of  the  stranger;  and  he  knew  the  stranger's 
feelings  toward  his  predecessor  and  the  lady. 

He  waylaid  Lastitia,  to  talk  of  himself  and  his  plans :  the 
project  of  a  run  to  Italy.  Enviable  ?  Yes,  but  in  England 
you  live  the  higher  moral  life.  Italy  boasts  of  sensual 
beauty  ;  the  spiritual  is  yours.  "  I  know  Italy  well ;  I  have 
often  wished  to  act  as  cicerone  to  you  there.  As  it  is,  I 
suppose  I  shall  be  with  those  who  know  the  land  as  well  as 
I  do,  and  will  not  be  particularly  enthusiastic  :  ....  if  you 
are  what  you  were  ?"  He  was  guilty  of  this  perplexing 
twist  from  one  person  to  another  in  a  sentence  more  than 
once.     While  he  talked  exclusively  of  himself,  it  seemed  to 


1  li 

[n  time  he  talked  principally  of  her, 

his   mother;  and  he 

Middleton  "  to  her  ;  he  wanti  I 

Middleton;  he  relied  on  her  intuition 

bad  never  know  □  it  err. 

-    I  lale,  I  should  not  be 
I    am  bound  up  in  my  good  opinion 
yon    must    continue    the    same,    or 
I  Thus  he  was  led  to  dwell  upon  friend- 

charm  of  the  friendship  of  men  and  women, 
as  n  wj  I.     "  1  have  laughed  at  it  in  the 

a   tlic   depth    of  my   ln-art.     The  world's 
are    laughable   enough.      You   have 
•  the  ideal  of  friendship  is  possible — when  we 
ipable  of  a  disinterested  esteem.     The 
duty;  duty  to  parents,  duty  to  country.     But 
ia  the  holiday  of  those  who  can  be  friends.     Wives 
.1.  friends  are  rare.     1  know  fane  rare!" 

d  her  thoughts  as  they  sprang  up.     Why 

rturing  her? — to  give  himself  a   holiday?     She 

t>>  lose   him     she  was  used  to  it — and  hear  his 

.    l>nt    imt    that    hi'    should   disfigure    himself;    it 

poor.     It    was  as  if   he   required  an  oath  of  her 

I:   "Italy!       But    1    shall   never  see  a  day  in 

Ital;  ipare  with  tin-  day  of  my  return  to  England,  or 

[uisite  as  your  welcome  of  me  !     Will 
to  that?     May  I  look    forward  to  just  another 
such 

He   pressed   her  for  an  answer.     She  gave  the  best  she 

>        i.     He  was  dissatisfied,  and  to  her  hearing  it  was  hardly 

of   manliness  thai   he  entreated  her  to  reassure 

mized  his  language.     She  had  to  say :   "I  am 

nnot    undertake  to  make  it  an  appointment,  Sir 

he   recovered    his  alertness,  which  he 

mything  but  obtuse,  with  the  reply,  "  You 

p  it  it'  you  promised,  ami  freeze  at  your  post.     So, 

i  .  we  mus<   lea\  e  it  to  fate.     The  will's 

5  now  i  tation  of  changes.     At  least 

■  t.  and  wherever  I  am,  I  see  your 

i  of  my  pa  i 

nor    1    would    willingly    quit    Ivy 


LETITIA  DALE.  33 

"So  far,  tlien  ;"  he  murmured.  "You  •will  give  me  a 
long  notice,  and  it  must  be  with  my  consent  if  you  think  of 
quitting  ?" 

"  I  could  almost  engage  to  do  that,"  she  said. 

"  You  love  the  place  ?" 

"Yes;  I  am  the  most  contented  of  cottagers." 

"  I  believe,  Miss  Dale,  it  would  be  well  for  my  happiness 
weie  I  a  cottager." 

"  That  is  the  dream  of  the  palace.  But  to  be  one,  and  not 
to  wish  to  be  other,  is  quiet  sleep  in  comparison." 

"  You  paint  a  cottage  in  colours  that  tempt  one  to  run 
from  big  houses  and  households." 

"You  would  run  back  to  them  faster,  Sir  Willoughby." 

"You  may  know  me,"  said  he,  bowing  and  passing  on  con. 
fcentedly.     He  stopped  :  "  But  I  am  not  ambitious." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  too  proud  for  ambition,  Sir  Wil- 
longhby." 

"  You  hit  me  to  the  life!" 

He  passed  on  regretfully.  Clara  Middleton  did  not  study 
and  know  him  like  Ln?titia  Dale. 

La?titia  was  left  to  think  it  pleased  him  to  play  at  cat  and 
mouse.  She  had  not  '  hit  him  to  the  life,'  or  she  would  have 
marvelled  in  acknowledging  how  sincere  he  was. 

At  her  next  sitting  by  the  bedside  of  Lady  Patterne,  she 
received  a  certain  measure  of  insight  that  might  have  helped 
her  to  fathom  him,  if  only  she  could  have  kept  her  feelings 
down.  The  old  lady  was  affectionately  confidential  in  talk- 
ing of  her  one  subject,  her  son.  "And  here  is  another 
dashing  girl,  my  dear;  she  has  money  and  health  and 
beauty  ;  and  so  has  he  ;  and  it  appears  a  fortunate  union  , 
I  hope  and  pray  it  may  be  ;  but  we  begin  to  1  ead  the  world 
when  our  eyes  gTow  dim,  because  we  read  the  plain  lines, 
and  1  ask  myself  whether  money  and  health  and  beauty  on 
both  sides,  have  not  been  the  mutual  attraction.  We  tried 
it  before ;  and  that  girl  Durham  wTas  honest,  whatever  we 
may  call  her.  I  should  have  desired  an  aj^preciative, 
thoughtful  partner  for  him,  a  woman  of  mind,  with  another 
sort  of  wealth  and  beauty.  She  was  honest,  she  ran  away 
in  time  ;  there  was  a  worse  thing  possible  than  that.  And 
now  we  have  the  same  chapter,  and  the  same  kind  of  person, 
who  may  not  be  quite  as  honest;  and  I  shall  not  see  the  end 
of  it.     Promise  me  you  will  always  be  good  to  him  ;  be  mj 

D 


II.  T. 

■      Be  what  you  were 

!  no  one,  ao1  even 

•    lie  Buffered  anythi 

Wniloughby  has  the  most 

I  Bhndder!     You 

of  the  constant 

I  k  in  no  a  repeated  to  herself 

.Vow,  when 

ber  constancy 

of  the  luuk  of  a  whimper  on 


[APTEB   V. 

ON. 


bby  Pa f  feme  and  Miss 

1  ,  the  seat  of 

■   mg  lad  hteen  was  first 

■  n.     She  bad  money  and  health 

.  v,  bich  makes  a  11 

a   her,  ex  pi  ber  to  1 

1  t  li:it  be  must  ho 
in  i  tarn.    He  "  of  a  pack ; 

of  i  hem  were  eager.     He 

•  to  communicate  to  her 

re  her  gloves  were  too 

.  for  b  1   1  here,  all 

band  to  partners — obscurant 

Far  too  generally  grac 

him.     The  effecl  of  it,  ue 

»vil  li  all   his    mi  ■  lit     into    t  he  heat  of 

ber  1  ban  i  h:  i  he  was 
I  Willoughby  Patterne  only  one  of 
■ 

is  riva  ppreciated 

e  of  you.     We 

i  :n  t  his  deparl  mi  I  be  uni« 

t.     You 


CLARA  MIDDLETON.  35 

spread  a  handsomer  tail  than  your  follows,  you  dress  a  finer 
top -knot,  you  pipe  a  newer  note,  have  a  longer  stride  ;  she 
reviews  you  in  competition,  and  selects  you.  The  superlative 
is  magnetic  to  her.  She  may  be  looking  elsewhere,  and  you 
will  see — the  superlative  will  simply  have  to  beckun,  away 
she  glides.  She  cannot  help  herself  ;  it  is  her  nature,  and 
her  nature  is  the  guarantee  for  the  noblest  race  of  men  to 
come  of  her.  In  complimenting  you,  she  is  a  promise  of 
superior  offspring.  Science  thus — or  it  is  better  to  say,  an 
acquaintance  with  science  facilitates  the  cultivation  of  aris- 
tocracy. Consequently  a  successful  pursuit  and  a  wresting 
of  her  from  a  body  of  competitors,  tells  you  that  you  are  the 
best  man.     What  is  more,  it  tells  the  world  so. 

Willoughby  aired  his  amiable  superlatives  in  the  eye  of 
Miss  Middleton ;  he  had  a  leg.  He  was  the  heir  of  suc- 
cessful competitors.  He  had  a  style,  a  tone,  an  artist  tailor, 
an  authority  of  manner:  he  had  in  the  hopeful  ardour  of  the 
chase  among  a  multitude  a  freshness  that  gave  him  advantage ; 
and  together  with  his  undeviating  energy  when  there  was  a 
prize  to  be  won  and  possessed,  these  were  scarce  resistible, 
lie  spared  no  pains,  for  he  was  adust  and  athirst  for  the 
winning-post.  He  courted  her  father,  aware  that  men  like- 
wise, and  parents  pre-eminently,  have  their  preference  for 
the  larger  offer,  the  deeper  pocket,  the  broader  lands,  the 
respectfuller  consideration.  Men,  after  their  fashion,  as  well 
as  women,  distinguish  the  bettermost,  and  aid  him  to  succeed, 
as  Dr.  Middleton  certainly  did  in  the  crisis  of  the  memorable 
question  proposed  to  his  daughter  within  a  month  of  Wil- 
loughby's  reception  at  Upton  Park.  The  young  lady  was 
astonished  at  his  whirlwind  wooing  of  her,  and  bent  to  it 
like  a  sapling.  She  begged  for  time;  Willoughby  could 
barely  wait.  She  unhesitatingly  owned  that  she  liked  no  one 
better,  and  he  consented.  A  calm  examination  of  his  position 
told  him  that  it  was  unfair  so  long  as  he  stood  engaged  and 
she  did  not.  She  pleaded  a  desire  to  see  a  little  of  the  world 
before  she  plighted  herself.  She  alarmed  him  ;  he  assumed 
the  amazing:  God  of  Love  under  the  subtlest  guise  of  the 
divinity.  Willingly  would  he  obey  her  behests,  resignedly 
languish,  were  it  not  for  his  mother's  desire  to  see  the  future 
lady  of  Patterne  established  there  before  she  died.  Love 
shone  cunningly  through  the  mask  of  filial  duty,  but  the  plea 
of  urgency  was  reasonable.     Dr.  Middleton  thought  it  reason- 

d2 


II!  1. 

to  .... 

i  sin-  had  a   maidonl;  e  t" 

1       Wil- 

\    months,  and  granted  that 

nut  led  to  Btand  engaged ; 

i    whispering  of  a  word.     She  was  im- 

captn  ity  b    the  pronunciation 

•    but  :i  binding  ceremonial.     Sin-  hail  health 

■  1  1  bea<  imt  that  lie  stipu- 

ith  bis  bride,  hut  it  adds  a  lustre  t"  dazzle 
r,  the  pack   of  rival  pursae  s  hung 
ing  their  dolorous  throai  s  tol  he 
he  inu-t  be.     I !<■  made  her  engagei 

it   v.  -  ilemn  plighting  of  a 

I   am  yours,  she  cniiM  .say, 

.  1   am   yours  for  ever,  I    bw<  ir  it,  I    will 

i! .   I    am   your  \\  ife    in    heart,   yours 

■  is  written  abo*  e.     To  t  his  she  con- 

ende  I.  "  a-  tar  as  I  am  concerned  ;"  :i  piece  of 

chilling  ad  he  forced  her  to  pass  him 

:hism  in  tarn,  and  came  out  with  fervent 

■    bound  him  to  her  ton  iudissolably  to  lei  her 

'II  am  loved  !  Bhe  I 

t.i    I  in    simple   faith    ami   wonderment. 

□   i"  think  of  love  ere  the  apparition 
•     I  S    B   had   1 1 < ■  t    thought  of  love  with  any 

Sin-  had  only  dreamed  of  1<>\  i 
the  distant  bl<  ii  the  mighty  world,  lyin<,rsome- 

n  the  world's  i  si  as,  veiled,  nicom- 

|  tiful    petals,  a    throbbing  secresy,  but  too 

:  her  bosom's  throbs.     Her  chief  idea  of  it 

nt  of  t  he  world  by  1" . 
did   Mi  >   Mid  oiesce  in  the  principle  of 

in. 

did  th(  tan  of   a  hosi  blow  his  triumphant 

'  '.v- 
He  •   :    he   ]  f  lie    dictum    of    Bci(  ' 

Patl  tired.     "  I  would."'  he 

M       M  rl  Jenkinson,  '"  have  bar- 

it  Bhe  I  rything 

.   breeding:    is   what    they  call    an 
bhe  most   Accomplished  of   her  -  With  a 


CLARA  MIDDLETON.  37 

delicate  art  he  conveyed  to  the  lady's  understanding  that 
Miss  Middleton  had  been  snatched  from  a  crowd,  without  a 
breath  of  the  crowd  having  offended  his  niceness.  He  did  it 
through  sarcasm  at  your  modern  young  women,  who  run 
about  the  world  nibbling  and  nibbled  at,  until  they  know 
one  sex  as  well  as  the  other,  and  are  not  a  whit  less  cognizant 
cf  the  market  than  men :  pure,  possibly ;  it  is  not  so  easy  to 
Bay  innocent ;  decidedly  not  our  feminine  ideal.  Miss  Mid- 
dleton was  different :  she  was  the  true  ideal,  fresh-gathered 
morning  fruit  in  a  basket,  warranted  by  her  bloom. 

Women  do  not  defend  their  younger  sisters  for  doing  what 
they  perhaps  have  done — lifting  a  veil  to  be  seen,  and  peep- 
ing at  a  world  where  innocence  is  as  poor  a  guarantee  as  a 
babe's  caul  against  shipwreck.  Women  of  the  world  never 
think  of  attacking  the  sensual  stipulation  for  perfect  bloom, 
silver  purity,  which  is  redolent  of  the  Oriental  origin  of  the 
love-passion  of  their  lords.  Mrs.  Mountstuart  congratulated 
Sir  Willoughby  on  the  prize  he  had  won  in  the  fair  western- 
eastern. 

"  Let  me  see  her,"  she  said ;  and  Miss  Middleton  was 
introduced  and  critically  observed. 

She  had  the  mouth  that  smiles  in  repose.  The  lips  met 
full  on  the  centre  of  the  bow  and  thinned  along  to  a  lifting 
dimple  ;  the  eyelids  also  lifted  slightly  at  the  outer  corners 
and  seemed,  like  the  lip  into  the  limpid  cheek,  quickening  up 
the  temples,  as  with  a  run  of  light,  or  the  ascension  in- 
dicated off  a  shoot  of  colour.  Her  features  were  playfellows 
of  one  another,  none  of  them  pretending  to  rigid  correctness, 
nor  the  nose  to  the  ordinary  dignity  of  governess  among 
merry  girls,  despite  which  the  nose  was  of  a  fair  design, 
not  acutely  interrogative  or  inviting  to  gambols.  Aspens 
imaged  in  water,  waiting  for  the  breeze,  would  offer  a  sus- 
ceptible lover  some  suggestion  of  her  face:  a  pure  smooth- 
white  face,  tenderly  flushed  in  the  cheeks,  where  the  gentle 
dints  were  faintly  intermelting  even  during  quietness.  Her 
eyes  were  brown,  set  well  between  mild  lids,  often  shado'.ved, 
not  unwakeful.  Her  hair  of  lighter  brown,  swelling  above 
her  temples  on  the  sweep  to  the  knot,  imposed  the  triangle 
of  the  fabulous  wild  woodland  visage  from  brow  to  mouth 
and  chin,  evidently  in  agreement  with  her  taste  ;  and  the 
triangle  suited  her ;  but  her  face  was  not  significant  of  a 
tameless  wildness  or  of  weakness  ;  her  equable  shut  mouth 


MIK   BOO! 

1  chin  from 

they   were 

.    and   :it   such 

h.  p    \  hair    losl   the 

i 

■  ion. 

i  he  prey  he  B] 

the  look  <r  ng  lady  whom 

to  i  he   Mountain    Echo,  and 

«d    to   be  "  a   dainty 

-  From  her  prompt 

I [e  preferred  the 

■  hat  of  a  ■-■'ill  under  t wenty  engi 

but   the  charm  of  her  ready  toi  nd  her 

nt   understanding  wit,  natural  wit, 

I  to  the  paste-sparkle  "f  the  wit  of  the 

>mium8  he  did  not  quote   Miss  Middleton'a 

..I   it  in  M is.  Mount« 

:    ■•  A h.   well.   I    have  not 

i     i  may  have  the  nit  of  drawing  it  nut." 

noticed   the  wit.     The  corrupted   hearing  of 

.»  □   of    8i     nds,    Vernon    Bupposed. 

their  excellence,   he  recollected    a 

Middleton'a  remarks;  they  came  flying 

:  ■      irbore  to  Bpeak  t  hem  aloud,  t  hey 

.  of  meaning.     It  could   noi  be  all   her 

much   his  own   manner  might  spoil   them. 

tain  degree,  her  quickness  .-it   catching 

i  conversation.     Possibly  by 

reation  wherein  sin-  had 

:   only  how  could  any  one 

portioi  was  no  use  in   being 

ording  him   personally,  and 

and   enjoyment,  Vernon 

■    ■     himself.     The  eulogies  of   her  beauty, 

■I   in  which  lie  did  n  i  In-  her  so  very  ■ 

him  i  [uence.     'I  er  Sir  Wil- 

ashion  t<>  exalt  hei   ;is  one  <>t'  t In-  1 1 
of  1  providentially  Belected    to    s<  t   off   his 

I  to  tho 
irt  of  China,  un  rice-paper.     A  little 


CLARA  MIDDLETON.  o9 

French  dressing  would  make  her  at  home  on  the  sward  by 
the  fountain  among  the  lutes  and  whisperers  of  the  bewitch- 
ing silken  shepherdesses,  who  live  though  they  never  were. 
Lady  Busshe  was  reminded  of  the  favourite  lineaments  of 
the  women  of  Leonardo,  the  angels  of  Luini.  Lady  Culmer 
had  seen  crayon  sketches  of  demoiselles  of  the  French 
aristocracy  resembling  her.  Some  one  mentioned  an  antique 
statue  of  a  figmre  breathing  into  a  flute:  and  the  mouth  at 
the  flute-stop  might  have  a  distant  semblance  of  the  bend  of 
her  mouth,  but  this  comparison  was  repelled  as  grotesque. 

For  once  Mrs.  Mountstuart  Jenkinson  was  unsuccessful. 
Her  '  dainty  rogue  in  porcelain  '  displeased  Sir  Willoughby. 
"  Why  rogue  r"  he  said.  The  lady's  fame  for  hitting  the 
mark  fretted  him,  and  the  grace  of  his  bride's  fine  bearing 
stood  to  support  him  iu  his  objection.  Clara  was  young, 
healthy,  handsome  ;  she  was  therefore  fitted  to  be  his  wife, 
the  mother  of  his  children,  his  companion  picture.  Certainly 
they  looked  well  side  b}^  side.  In  walking  with  her,  in  droop- 
ing to  her,  the  whole  man  was  made  conscious  of  the  female 
image  of  himself  by  her  exquisite  unlikeness.  She  completed 
him,  added  the  softer  lines  wanting  to  his  portrait  before  the 
world.  He  had  wooed  her  ra^ein^lv  :  he  courted  her  he- 
comingly ;  with  the  manly  self-possession  enlivened  by 
watchful  tact  which  is  pleasing  to  girls.  He  never  seemed 
to  under-value  himself  in  valuing  her:  a  secret  priceless  in 
the  courtship  of  young  women  that  have  heads  ;  the  lover 
doubles  their  sense  of  personal  worth  through  not  forfeiting 
his  own.  Those  were  proud  and  happy  days  when  he  rode 
Black  Norman  over  to  Upton  Park,  and  his  lady  looked  forth 
for  him  and  knew  him  coming  by  the  faster  beating  of  her 
heart. 

Her  mind,  too,  was  receptive.  She  took  impressions  of 
his  characteristics,  and  supplied  him  a  feast.  She  remem- 
bered his  chance  phrases;  noted  his  ways,  his  peculiarities, 
as  no  one  of  her  sex  had  done.  He  thanked  his  cousin 
Veimon  for  saving  she  had  wit.  She  had  it,  and  of  so  high 
a  flavour  that  the  more  he  thought  of  the  epigram  launched 
at  her,  the  more  he  grew  displeased.  With  the  wit  to  under- 
stand him,  and  the  heart  to  worship,  she  had  a  dignity  rarely 
seen  in  young  ladies. 

"  Why  rogue  ?"  he  insisted  with  Mrs.  Mountstuart. 

"  I  said — in  porcelain,"  she  replied. 


Tl'  P. 

M    |  ' 

••  -  •  of  honour." 

«•  I  of  recti  I  mlo." 

.1  i  in  1  bearing." 
'•  The  carriage  of  a  young  princess!" 
"  |  ■  ct." 

i  she  may  be  a  dainty  rogue  in  porcelain." 
yon  judging  by  the  mind  or  the  person,  ma'am  ?" 
"  i 

*'  A :   i  which  is  w  hich  P" 
"  distinction." 

44  |;  tid  mistress  ol  Patteme  do  not  go  together." 

'•\.  She  will  boa  novelty  to  onr  neighbourhood 

ami  an  animation  of  the  Hall." 

igue  d(  ightly  match  with  me." 

"  Take  ber  for  a  supplement." 
44  "t  e  her  P" 

41  in  love  with  her!     T  can  imagine  life-long  amusement 
in  her  company.     Aim  ml  to  my  advice:  prize  the  porcelain 
play  with  i  be 
Sir      Willonghby     nodded     nnilluminated.       There     was 
in  himself,  so  there  could  be  nothing  of 
it  in  h  Elfishness,   tricksiness,   freakishness,  were 

■    to  his    nature;    and    be   argued    that    it    was 
impossible    lie   should    have  chosen   for    his  complement   a 
deserving  the  title.     It  would   not  have  been  sane. 
guardian    genius.       His    closer   acquaintance 
with   Miss    Middleton    squared    with    his   first  impressions; 
know  thai  this  is  convincing ;  the  common  jury  just  dies 
!  the  case  to  them  by  the  grand  jury  ;  and 
i  conclusion,  that  she  was   essentially  feminine, 
in  other  words,  a    pa  and   a  chalice,  Clara's  conduct 

med  ft      .  da    to  day.     He  began   to  instruct  her  in 
knowledge  of  bimsell  withi  nd  she,  as  she 

I  \\  itli  him,  became  more  reflective, 
by  character,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Mountfituart. 
u  If  you  1  the  character  of  a  girl,"  said  she. 

41  I  think  I  am  nol  Far  off  it." 

•  by  the  man   who  dived  for  the  moon 
I." 
"  1  I  i  heir  sex  !" 


CLARA  MIDDLETON.  4  1 

•'Not  a  bit.  She  has  no  character  yet.  You  are  forming 
it,  and  pray  be  advised  and  be  merry  ;  the  solid  is  your 
safest  guide  ;  physiognomy  and  manners  will  give  you  more 
of  a  girl's  character  than  all  the  divings  you  can  do.  She 
is  a  charming  young  woman,  only  she  is  one  of  that  sort." 

"  Of  what  sort?"  Sir  Willoughby  asked  impatiently. 

"  Rogues  in  porcelain." 

"  I  am  persuaded  I  shall  never  comprehend  it  I" 

"  I  cannot  help  you  one  bit  further." 

"  The  word  rogue  !" 

"  It  was  dainty  rogue." 

"Brittle,  would  you  say?" 

"  I  am  quite  unable  to  say." 

"  An  innocent  naughtiness  ?" 

"  Prettily  moulded  in  a  delicate  substance." 

"  You  are  thinking  of  some  piece  of  Dresden  you  suppose 
her  to  resemble." 

"I  daresay." 

"  Artificial  ?" 

"You  would  not  have  her  natural  ?" 

"  I  am  heartily  satisfied  with  her  from  head  to  foot,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Mountstuart." 

"  Nothing  could  be  better.  And  sometimes  she  will  lead, 
and  generally  you  Avill  lead,  and  everything  will  go  well,  my 
dear  Sir  Willoughby." 

Like  all  rapid  phrasers,  Mrs.  Mountstuart  detested  the 
analysis  of  her  sentence.  It  had  an  outline  in  vagueness, 
and  was  flung  out  to  be  apprehended,  not  dissected.  Her 
directions  for  the  reading  of  Miss  Middleton's  character 
were  the  same  that  she  practised  in  reading  Sir  Wil- 
loughby's,  whose  physiognomy  and  manners  bespoke  him 
what  she  presumed  him  to  be,  a  splendidly  proud  gentle- 
man, with  good  reason. 

Mrs.  Mountstuart's  advice  was  wiser  than  her  procedure, 
for  she  stopped  short  where  he  declined  to  begin.  He  dived 
below  the  surface  without  studying  that  index-page.  He 
had  won  Miss  Middleton's  hand;  he  believed  he  had  cap- 
tured her  heart ;  but  he  was  not  so  certain  of  his  possession 
of  her  soul,  and  he  went  after  it.  Our  enamoured  gentle- 
man had  therefore  no  tally  of  Nature's  writing  above  to  set 
beside  his  discoveries  in  the  deeps.  Now  it  is  a  dan- 
gerous accompaniment  of  this  habit  of  diving,  that  where 


TM  5T. 

the  discoveries  we  anticipate,  we  fall  to 

and   planting;  which   becomes  a  disturbance 

■  ,.     Mi   -  Middleton's  features  were  legible 

linspring  of  her  character.     He  could  have  seen 

thai   she  had   a  spirit    with  a  natural  love  of  liberty,  and 

thing  i"  liberty,  spaciousness,  if  she  was 

to   own  allegiance.     Those  features,    unhappily,  instead  of 

an  introduction  to  the  within,  were  treated  as 

mirror  of  himself.     They  were   indeed  of  an  amiable 

mpi  an  accepted  lover  to  angle  for  the  first 

in  the  second.     Bui  he  had  made  the  discovery  that 

•  iniiols  differed  on  one  or  two  points,  and  a  difference  of 

in  his  bride  was  obnoxious  to  his  repose.     He  struck  at 

ringly  to  show  her  error  under  various  aspects.     He 

her  character  to  the  feminine  of  his  own, 

and  betrayed  the  surprise  of  a   slighl  disappointment  at  her 

of  her  ideas.     She  immediately:  "It  is  not 

ate,  Willoughby,"  and  wounded  him,  for  he  wanted  her 

ply  to  I  ial   in  his  hands  for  him   to  mould  her; 

he  had  no  other  thought.     He  lectured  her  on  the  theme  of 

the  infinity  of  love.     How  was  it  noi  too  late?     They  were 

1;    they    were   one    eternally;    they    could   not    be 

She  l  gravely,  conceiving  the  infinity  as  a 

dwelling  where  a  voice  droned  and  ceased  not.     How- 

r,  she  listened.     She  became  an  attentive  listener. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

HIS  C0UB1  -llll'. 


The  world  was  the  principal  topic  of  dissension  between 

His  opinion  of  the  world  affected  her  like  a 

d  with  a  deprivation  of  air.     lie  explained 

■      thai  lovers  of  necessity  do  loathe  the  world. 

■i  the  world,  they  accepi  its  benefits,  and  assist  it 

can.     in  their  hearts  they  must  despise  it, 

'    their  love  for  one  another  may  pour  in  a 

and  with  all  the  force  they  have.     They  cau- 

rity  for  then-  love   unless  they 

i  on  will  allow,  gross  ;  it  is  a 


HIS  COURTSHIP.  43 

beast.  Formally  we  thank  it  for  the  good  we  get  of  it; 
ouly  Ave  two  have  an  inner  temple  where  the  worship  we 
conduct  is  actually,  if  you  would  but  see  it,  an  excommu- 
nication of  the  world.  We  abhor  that  beast  to  adore  that 
divinity.  This  gives  us  our  oneness,  our  isolation,  our 
happiness.  This  is  to  love  with  the  soul.  Do  you  see, 
darling  ? 

She  shook  her  head;  she  could  not  see  it.  She  would 
admit  none  of  the  notorious  errors  of  the  world  ;  its  back- 
biting, selfishness,  coarseness,  intrusiveness,  infectiousness. 
She  was  young.  She  might,  "Willougdiby  thought,  have  let 
herself  be  led :  she  was  not  docile.  She  must  be  up  in  arms 
as  a  champion  of  the  world:  and  one  saw  she  was  hugging 
her  dream  of  a  romantic  world,  nothing  else.  She  spoilt  the 
secret  bower-song  he  delighted  to  tell  over  to  her.  And 
how,  Powers  of  Love  !  is  love-making  to  be  pursued  if  we 
may  not  kick  the  world  out  of  our  bower  and  wash  our 
hands  of  it  ?  Love  that  does  not  spurn  the  world  when 
lovers  curtain  themselves  is  a  love — is  it  not  so  ? — that  seems 
to  the  unwhipped  scoffing  world  to  go  slinking  into  basia- 
tion's  obscurity,  instead  of  on  a  glorious  march  behind  the 
screen.  Our  hero  had  a  strong  sentiment  as  to  the  policy  of 
scorning  the  world  for  the  sake  of  defending  his  personal 
pride  and  (to  his  honour,  be  it  said)  his  lady's  delicacy. 

The  act  of  scorning  put  them  both  above  the  world,  said, 
retro  Sathanas !  So  much,  as  a  piece  of  tactics  :  he  was 
highly  civilized  :  in  the  second  instance,  he  knew  it  to  be 
the  world  which  must  furnish  the  dry  sticks  for  the  bonfire 
of  a  woman's  worship.  He  knew,  too,  that  he  was  pre- 
scribing poetry  to  his  betrothed,  practicable  poetry.  She 
had  a  liking  for  poetry,  and  sometimes  quoted,  the  stuff  in 
deiiance  of  his  pursed  mouth  and  pained  murmur :  "  I 
am  no  poet ;"  but  his  poetry  of  the  enclosed  and  fortified 
bower,  without  nonsensical  rhymes  to  catch  the  ears  of 
women,  appeared  incomprehensible  to  her,  if  not  adverse. 
She  would  not  burn  the  world  for  him;  she  would  not, 
though  a  purer  poetry  is  little  imaginable,  reduce  herself  to 
ashes,  or  incense,  or  essence,  in  honour  of  him,  and  so,  by 
love's  transmutation,  literally  "be  the  man  she  was  to  marry. 
She  preferred  to  be  herself,  with  the  egoism  of  women ! 
She  said  it :  she  said  :  "  I  must  be  myself  to  be  of  any  value 
to  you,  Willoughby."     He  was  indefatigable  in  his  lectures 


Til  ■       I. 

quently,  for  an  indemnification 

|  thai    she   should    be  a   loser  \>y 

I,  he  dwell  on  his  own  youthful 

about   i  he  world  were  pre- 

i  he  tin 

■  e  n    well,  fo  ■  as   sure  thai   ho 

well  w  hat  was  distasteful  to  her, 

what  Bhe  had  merely  noted 

:  his  vi  -  tholarship  ;    his  manner 

;    Mi     \  whom   her  father  spoke 

rning  I  :  nenl   of  a   M  iss 

tantia   Durham   sang 
He   had   no  pi    for  the 

W"hitford    wrote   the   letters  to  the 
•    him   applause  at  various  great 
it,  and   betrayed  a  tingling  flight 
I  he  ••  i'-i  in  neer  of  the  world  he  con- 

sting  his   remarks,  her  mind  was  afflicted 
al  '  in  him  that  we  readily  discover 
e  ii"  longer  running  free,  and  then  at 
.    on.      She   resolved  that  she 
bant   day,   provoke  it-   upon   what? 
luded    her.     The  world  is  too  huge  a 
potty,   for  a  girl   to  defend 
i      •   ■   omething  illogical  '  had  stirred  her 
than    h  llect    to   revolt.      She  could    not 

it'-  of  Mr.  Whitl'ord.     Still  she 
ttation  for  an  event  to  con 
M  picturing  Sir  Willoughby's 

of  his  bride's  decided  disagreement 
picture  i  njured  up  would  not  be  laid, 

rrectly  handsome,  that  a  slight  un- 
ci him  into  caiicatnre.    His  habitual 
of  hap]  indignant  contentment  rather,  could 

-<■.  v. Inn  he  threw  emphasis  on 

•.  it  h  the  tall  eyebrows  of  a  mask — limit  less 

ami  in  time,  whenever  she 

I  be  had  that,  and  not  his 

him.     And  it  was  unjust,  contrary 

ebuked  herself,  and  as  much  as 

•  permitted,  Bhe  tried  to  look  on  him  as  the 

■  it  inducing  :tions  npon  the  blessings 


HIS  courtship.  4a 

of  ignorance.     She  seemed  to  herself  beset  by  a  circle  of 
imps,  hardly  responsible  for  her  thoughts. 

He  outshone  Mr.  Whitford  in  his  behaviour  to  young 
Crossjay.  She  had  seen  him  with  the  boy,  and  he  was 
amused,  indulgent,  almost  frolicsome,  in  contradistinction  to 
Mr.  Whitford's  tutorly  sharpness.  He  had  the  English 
father's  tone  of  a  liberal  allowance  for  boy's  tastes  and 
pranks,  and  he  ministered  to  the  partiality  of  the  genus  for 
pocket-money.  He  did  not  play  the  schoolmaster,  like 
bookworms  who  get  poor  little  lads  in  their  grasp. 

Mr.  Whitford  avoided  her  very  much.  He  came  to 
Upton  Park  on  a  visit  to  her  father,  and  she  was  not 
particularly  sorry  that  she  saw  him  only  at  table.  tie 
treated  her  by  fits  to  a  level  scrutiny  of  deep-set  eyes  un- 
pleasantly penetrating.  She  had  liked  his  eyes.  They 
became  unbearable;  they  dwelt  in  the  memory  as  if  they 
had  left  a  phosphorescent  line.  She  had  been  taken  by 
playmate  boys  in  her  infancy  to  peep  into  hedge-leaves, 
where  the  mother-bird  brooded  on  the  nest ;  and  the  eyes  of 
the  bird  in  that  marvellous  dark  thickset  home,  had  sent 
her  away  with  worlds  of  fancy.  Mr.  Whitford's  gaze 
revived  her  susceptibility,  but  not  the  old  happy  wondering. 
She  was  glad  of  his  absence,  after  a  certain  hour  that  she 
passed  with  Willoughby,  a  wretched  hour  to  remember. 
Mr.  Whitford  had  left,  and  Willoughby  came,  bringing  bad 
news  of  his  mother's  health.  Lady  Patterne  was  fast  fail- 
ing. Her  son  spoke  of  the  loss  she  would  be  to  him  ;  he 
spoke  of  the  dreadfulness  of  death.  He  alluded  to  his  own 
death  to  come,  carelessly,  with  a  philosophical  air. 

"  All  of  us  must  go  !  our  time  is  short." 

"Very,"  she  assented. 

It  sounded  like  want  of  feeling. 

"  If  you  lose  me,  Clara  !" 

"  But  you  are  strong,  Willoughby." 

"  I  may  be  cut  off  to-morrow." 

"Do  not  talk  in  such  a  manner." 

"  It  is  as  well  that  it  should  be  faced." 

"I  cannot  see  what  purpose  it  serves." 

*'  Should  vou  lose  me,  my  love  !" 

"  Willoughby  !" 

"  Oh,  the  bitter  pang  of  leaving  you  !" 

"Dear  Willoughby,  }^ou  are  distressed  ;  your  mother  may 


TP 

11;    I  u  ill  help  to  nurse  her  ;  I 

I    am    n  ady,    most    an  I 

i 

w  itli  death.  1" 

i." 
'• 
••  ]  meet  again  r" 

rorld  and   Bee  yon  perhaps   ....   with 

?— Where?      I 

i  You  !  my  bride  ;   whom  I 

-.-. ..  i!.l  be  -till  -  in  thai  horror! 
>le ;  women  are  women ;  they  swim  in 
re  to  wave !     I  know  them." 
hby,  do   not  torment   yourself   and   me,  I  beg 

i  profoundly,  and  asked  lier:  "  Could  you  be 
■  b  aong  women  r 

••  1  iliink  I  am  a  more  than  usually  childish  girl." 
;  me  r" 

■?" 
"  I 

?" 

"  l ;  -1  death  ?" 

■  tarried,  I  i liinlc." 

dedicate  your  life  to  onr  love!     Never  one 

t  not  hi  ■  -  ii>  >t  ;i  dream !    ( lould 

me  to  imagine  ....  be  inviolate?  mine 

.•ill  men,  though   1  am  gone: — true  to 

Till  me.     Give  me  thai  assurance.     True  to  my 

i  hem.     '  1 1  i>  relicl .'      Buzzings  about 

'The  widow.'     if  you  knew  their  talk  of 

Shut  your  ears,  my  angel  I     Bui  if  Bhe  holds  them 

her  pat  b,  t  bey  ar<  :         jpeci  her.     The 

•    the  dishonoured  wretch  they  I 

:•  way.    He  lives  in  the  heart 

1  I  !  as  I  live  in  youi  s,  w  hether 

.  wheth  area  wife  or  widow,  there  is  no 

y  it     etei  nally. 
1  ij  endure  i he  pain.     I >i  : 


HIS  COURTSHIP.  47 

yes  ;  I  have  cause  to  be.  But  it  has  haunted  me  ever  since 
■we  joined  hands.     To  have  you — to  lose  you  !" 

"  Is  it  not  possible  that  I  may  be  the  first  to  die  ?"  said 
Miss  Middleton. 

"  And  lose  you,  with  the  thought  that  you,  lovely  as  you 
are,  and  the  dogs  of  the  world  barking'  round  you,  might 
....  Is  it  any  wonder  that  I  have  my  feeling  for  the 
world  ?  This  hand  ! — the  thought  is  horrible.  You  would 
be  surrounded  ;  men  are  brutes  ;  the  scent  of  unfaithfulness 
excites  them,  overjoys  them.  And  I  helpless  !  The  thought 
is  maddening.  I  see  a  ring  of  monkeys  grinning.  There  is 
your  beauty,  and  man's  delight  in  desecrating.  You  would 
be  worried  night  and  day  to  quit  my  name,  to  ...  .  I  feel 
the  blow  now.  You  would  have  no  rest  for  them,  nothing  to 
cling  to  without  your  oath." 

"  An  oath  !"  said  Miss  Middleton. 

"  It  is  no  delusion,  my  love,  when  I  tell  you  that  with  this 
thought  upon  me  I  see  a  ring  of  monkey-faces  grinning  at 
me:  they  haunt  me.  But  you  do  swear  it!  Once,  and  I 
will  never  trouble  you  on  the  subject  again.  My  weakness  ! 
if  you  like.  You  will  learn  that  it  is  love,  a  man's  love, 
stronger  than  death." 

"  An  oath  ?"  she  said,  and  moved  her  lips  to  recall  what 
she  might  have  said  and  forgotten.  "To  what?  what 
oath  ?" 

"  That  you  will  be  true  to  me  dead  as  well  as  living ! 
Whisper  it." 

"  Willoughby,  I  shall  be  true  to  my  vows  at  the 
altar." 

"Tome!  me!" 

"  It  will  be  to  you." 

"  To  my  soul.  No  heaven  enn  be  for  me — I  see  none,  only 
torture,  unless  I  have  your  word,  Clara.  I  trust  it.  I  will 
trust  it  implicitly.     My  confidence  in  you  is  absolute." 

"  Then  you  need  not  be  troubled." 

"  It  is  for  you,  my  love  ;  chat  you  may  be  armed  and  strong 
when  I  am  not  by  to  protect  you." 

"  Our  viewrs  of  the  world  are  opposed,  "Willoughby." 

"Consent;  gratify  me;  swear  it.  Say,  'Beyond  denth.' 
Whisper  it.  I  ask  for  nothing  more.  Women  think  the 
husband's  grave  breaks  the  bond,  cuts  the  tie,  sets  them 
loose.     They  wed  the  flesh — pah  !     What  I  call  on  you  for  is 


II!  T. 

odanl   nobility  of  faithfulni  ond 

■  /.  :  !'  lei  thorn  sa.)  ;  in  widowhood." 

•   the  altar  must  Buffi( 

Clara!" 

"  I  u." 

mple  promise  P     But  yon  love  me  ?" 
"  |  -I  vow  t  b(  proof  of  it  that  1  can." 

ler  how  utterly  1  place  confidence  in  you." 
;i  is  well  placed.' 
■  I    could   kneel   to  you,   to  worship  you,  if  you   would, 
I 

•  Kneel  to  heaven,  no!  to  me,  Willonghby.     I  am 

!       jh  I  urn-  able  to  tell  what  1  am.     1  may  be  inconstant : 

I      •  no!  know  myself.     Think;  question  yourself  whether  I 

ily  tin-  person  you  should  marry.     Your  wife  should 

qualities  of  mind  and   soul.      I  will  consent  to 

I  do  mil  possess  them,  and  abide  by  the  verdict." 

••  Y-u    do  ;   yon    do    possess    them  !"    Willoughby   cried. 

'•  When  you  know  better  what  the  world  is,  you  will  under- 

uxiety.     Alive,  1  am  stro]  bield  you  from  it; 

1.  helpless     thai    is    all.      You   would  be  clad  in  mail, 

,  inviolable,  if  you  would  ....     Hut  try  to  enter 

ill;   think   with   me,   feel    with  me.      When  you 

ha\.  comprehended  the  intensity  of  the  love  of  a  man 

a  will  not  require  asking.     It  is  the  difference  of 

the  the   vulgar;    of   the  ideal   of  love  from   the 

if  the  herds.     We  will  let  it  drop.     At  least,  I 

ir  band.    As  long  as  I  live  1  have  your  hand.    Ought 

[not!  tisfied  P     1  am;  only,  1  see  farther  than  most 

men,  and  feel  more  deeply.     And  now  I  must   ride  to  my 

er's  bt  She  dies  Lady  Patterne  !     It  might  have 

I  she  ....  but  she  is  a  woman  of  women!     With 

ther-in-law!     Just  heaven!     Could  I  have  stood  by  her 

then  with  the  Bame  feelings  of  reverence?     A  \rvy  little, 

rerything  gained  Eor  us  by  civilization  crum- 

'  til  back  to  the  first  mortar-bowl  we  were  bruised 

•'""I  hi.    My  thoughts,  when  1  take  my  stand  to  watch 

•liision.  that,  especially  in  women, 

a  i-  the  thing  to  be  aimed  at.     Otherwise  we  are 

;  human  i  Women  must  teach  us  to  venerate 

I  be  bleating  and  barking  and  bellow- 
i.      You  have  but  to  think  a  little.     I 


HIS  COURTSHIP.  49 

must  be  off.  It  may  have  happened  during  my  .absence.  I 
will  write.  I  shall  hear  from  you  ?  Come  and  see  me  mount 
Black  Norman.  My  respects  to  your  father.  I  have  no  time 
to  pay  them  in  person.     One  !" 

He  took  the  one — love's  mystical  number — from  which 
commonly  spring  multitudes;  but,  on  the  present  occasion, 
it  was  a  single  one,  and  cold.  She  watched  him  riding  away 
on  his  gallant  horse,  as  handsome  a  cavalier  as  the  world 
could  show,  and  the  contrast  of  his  recent  language  and  his 
fine  figure  was  a  riddle  that  froze  her  blood.  Speech  so 
foreign  to  her  ears,  unnatural  in  tone,  unmanlike  even  for  a 
lover  (who  is  allowed  a  softer  dialect)  set  her  vainly  sound- 
ing for  the  source  aud  drift  of  it.  She  was  glad  of  not 
having  to  encounter  eyes  like  Mr.  Vernon  Whitford's. 

On  behalf  of  Sir  Willoughby,  it  is  to  be  said  that  his 
mother,  without  infringing  on  the  degree  of  respect  for  his 
decisions  and  sentiments  exacted  by  him,  had  talked  to  him 
of  Miss  Middleton,  suggesting  a  volatility  of  temperament 
in  the  young  lady,  that  struck  him  as  consentaneous  with 
Mrs.  Mountstuart's  '  rogue  in  porcelain,'  and  alarmed  him 
as  the  independent  observations  of  two  world- wise  women. 
Nor  was  it  incumbent  upon  him  personally  to  credit  the 
volatility  in  order,  as  far  as  he  could,  to  effect  the  soul- 
insurance  of  his  bride,  that  he  might  hold  the  security  of 
the  policy.  The  desire  for  it  was  in  him ;  his  mother  had 
merely  tolled  a  warning  bell  that  he  had  put  in  motion  before. 
Clara  was  not  a  Constantia.  But  she  was  a  woman,  and  he 
had  been  deceived  by  women,  as  a  man  fostering  his  high 
ideal  of  them  will  surely  be.  The  strain  he  adopted  was 
quite  natural  to  his  passion  and  his  theme.  The  language 
of  the  primitive  sentiments  of  men  is  of  the  same  expression 
at  all  times,  minus  the  primitive  colours  when  a  modern 
gentleman  addresses  his  lad}-. 

Lady  Patterne  died  in  the  Winter  season  of  the  new  year. 
In  April  Dr.  Middleton  had  to  quit  Upton  Park,  and  he  had 
not  found  a  place  of  residence,  nor  did  he  quite  know  what 
to  do  with  himself  in  the  prospect  of  his  daughter's  marriage 
and  desertion  of  him.  Sir  Willoughby  proposed  to  find  him 
a  house  within  a  circuit  of  the  neighbourhood  of  Patterne. 
Moreover,  he  invited  the  Rev.  doctor  and  his  daughter  to 
come  to  Patterne  from  Upton  for  a  month,  and  make  ac- 
quaintance  with  his   aunts,   the  ladies  Eleanor   and    Isabel 

E 


5<>  TIP  9T. 

t  might  imt  I.  ■  i  <  ''.ii  a  to  have 

;  ,•  er  her  marriage.      I  >r.  M  iddlcton 

oinr  (insult  bis  daughter  before  accepting  the  invita- 

1   it    appeared,  when   he  did    speak   to  her,  that  it 

,1,1  ha\  i  done.     Bui  she  said  mildly:  "Very  well, 

W  Ho  :  :iiliv  had  to  visit  the  metropolis  and  an  estate 

intv.  whence  he  wrote  to  his  betrothed  daily. 

He  1  to  Patterne  in  time  to  arrange  for  the  welcome 

i  late,  however,  to  ride  over  to  them  ;  and, 

n  while,  during  his  absence,  M  iss  Middleton  had  bethought 

herself  that  she  ought  to  have  given  Iter  last  days  of  freedom 

to  her  friends.     After  the  weeks  to  be  passed  at  Patterne, 

very  few  weeks  were  left  to   her,  and  she  had  a  wish  to  run 

-  witzerland  or  Tyrol  and  see  the  Alps  ;  a  quaint  idea,  her 

father  thought.      She  repeated  it  seriously,  and  Dr.  Middle- 

perceived  a  feminine  shuttle  of  indecision  at  work  in  her 

d,  frightful  to  him,  considering  that  they  signified  hesi- 

m  between  the  excellent  library  and  capital  wine-cellar 

■  Hall,  together  with  the  society  of  that  promising 

:holar  Mr.  Vernon  Whitl'ord,  on  the  one  side,  and  a 

if  hotels— equivalent  to  being  rammed  into  monster 

llery  with  a  crowd  every  night,  and  shot  off  on  a  day's 

journey  through  space  every  morning — on  the  other. 

•■  You  will  have  your  travelling  and  your  Alps  after  the 
emony,"  he  said. 

"I  think  I  would  rather  stay  at  home,"  said  she. 
Dr.  Middleton  rejoined:   "  /  would." 
"  Bui    I  am  not  married  yet,  papa." 
my  dear." 

"A  little  change  of  scene,  I  thought  .  .  .  ." 

'We  have  accepted  Willoughby's  invitation.  And  he 
hel]  o  a  house  near  you." 

"  You  wish  to  be  near  me,  papa?" 

•  Proximate— at  a  remove:  eommunicable." 

"  Why  should  we  separate  ?" 

"  For  tie  dear,  that  you  exchange  a  father  for 

a  husband." 

"If  I  do  not  want  to  exchange  ?" 

'To   •  ,,u    musi    pay.  my  child.     Husbands   are 

hing." 

"  No.     But  I  should  have  you,  papa  !" 


THE  BETROTHED.  51 

"  Should  ?" 

"  They  have  not  yet  parted  its,  dear  papa." 

"What  does  that  mean  p"  he  asked  fussily.  He  was  in  a 
gentle  stew  already,  apprehensive  of  a  disturbance  of  the 
serenity  precious  to  scholars  by  postponements  of  the  cere- 
mony, and  a  prolongation  of  a  father's  worries. 

"  Oh,  the  common  meaning,  papa,"  she  said,  seeing  how  it 
was  with  him. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  nodding  and  blinking  gradually  back  to  a 
state  of  composure,  glad  to  be  appeased  on  any  terms  ;  for 
mutability  is  but  another  name  for  the  sex,  and  it  is  the 
enemy  of  the  scholar. 

She  suggested  that  two  weeks  at  Patterne  would  offer 
plenty  of  time  to  inspect  the  empty  houses  of  the  district, 
and  should  be  sufficient,  considering  the  claims  of  friends, 
and  the  necessity  for  going  the  round  of  London  shops. 

"  Two  or  three  weeks,"  he  agreed  hurriedly,  by  way  of 
compromise  with  that  fearful  prospect. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   BETROTHED. 


During  the  drive  from  Upton  to  Patterne,  Miss  Middleton 
hoped,  she  partly  believed,  that  there  was  to  be  a  change  in 
Sir  Willoughby's  manner  of  courtship.  He  had  been  so 
different  a  wooer.  She  remembered  with  some  half-conscious 
desperation  of  fervour  what  she  had  thought  of  him  at  his 
first  approaches,  and  in  accepting  him.  Had  she  seen  him 
with  the  eyes  of  the  world,  thinking  they  were  her  own  ? 
That  look  of  his,  the  look  of  '  indignant  contentment,'  had 
then  been  a  most  noble  conquering  look,  splendid  as  a  general's 
plume  at  the  gallop.  It  could  not  have  altered.  Was  it  that 
her  eyes  had  altered  ? 

The  spirit  of  those  days  rose  up  within  her  to  reproach 
her  and  whisper  of  their  renewal :  she  remembered  her  rosy 
dreams  and  the  image  she  had  of  him,  her  throbbing  pride 
in  him,  her  choking  richness  of  happiness:  and  also  her  vain 

e2 


THE    I  QOIST. 

attempting  to   be  verj    humble,  usually  ending  in  a  caiol, 

t  h.  m t  charm,  bu<  quaint,  puzzling. 
Nom  men  whose  incomes  have  been  restricted  to  the  extent 
must   live  "ii  their  capital,  -  row  relieved  of 

the   forethoughtful   anguish  wasting   them   by  the  hilarious 
:    the  lap  upon  which  they  have  sunk  back,  inSo- 
li  that   they  are  apl  to  solace  themselves  for  their  in- 
nticipations  of  famine  in  the  household  by  giving 
■  t..  one  tit  or  more  of.reckless   lavishness.     Lovers  in 
like  manner  live  on  their  capital  from  failure  of  income: 
■  be  sake  of  stifling  apprehension  and  piping  to 
•  hour,  are  lavish  of  their  stock,  so  as  rapidly  bo 
nuateit:   they  have  their  fits  of  intoxication  in  view  of 
ling   famine:  they  force  memory  into  play,  love  retro- 
tively,  rutcr  the  old  house  of  the  past  and  ravage  the 
larder,  and  would  gladly,  even  resolutely,  continue  in  illusion 
were  possible  for  the  broadest  honey-store  of  reminis- 
to  hold  out    for  a  length  of   time   against  a  mortal 
appetite  :   which  in  pood  sooth  stands  on  the  alternative  of  a 
ption  of  the  hive  or  of  the  creature  it  is  for  nourish- 
ing.     Hen-  do  lovers  show  that  they  are  perishable.     More 
than   the  poor  clay  world   they   need  fresh  supplies,  right 
■me  juices;  as  it  were,  life  in  the   burst  of   the  bud, 
fruits  yet  on  the  tree,  rather  than  potted  provender.     The 
latter  is  excellent  for  by-and-by.  when  there  will  be  a  vast 
deal  more  to  remember,  and  appetite  shall  have  but  one  tooth 
lining.   Should  their  minds  perchance  have  been  saturate.  1 
heir  firsl  impressions  and  have  retained  them,  loving  by 
the  accountable  light  of  reason,  they  may  have  fair  harvests, 
a>  in  the  early  time  ;  but  that  case  is  rare.     In  other  words, 
is  an  affair  of  two,  and  is  only  for  two  that  can  be  as 
quick,   as   constant   in 'intercommunication  as   are  sun  and 
bh,  through  the  cloud   or  face  to   face.     They  take  their 
ith  of  life  from  one  another  in  signs  of  affection,  proofs 
aithfulness,  incentives  to  admiration.     Thus  it  is  with 
men  and  women  in  love's  good  season.     But  a  solitary  soul 
_' a  log,  musl  make  the  fog  a  God  to  rejoice   in  the 
len.     That  is  no!  love. 

was   the   least   fitted  of  all  women  to  drag  a  log. 
ould  be  so  rapid  in  exhausting  capital.     She 
nine  indeed,  but  she  wanted  comradeship,  a  living  and 
■■  exchange  of  the  besj  in  both,  with  the  deeper  feelings 


THE  BETROTHED.  53 

untroubled.  To  be  fixed  at  the  mouth  of  a  mine,  and  to 
have  to  descend  it  daily,  and  not  to  discover  great  opulence 
below;  on  the  contrary,  to  be  chilled  in  subterranean  sunless- 
ness,  "without  any  substantial  quality  that  she  could  giasp, 
only  the  mystery  of  inefficient  tallow-light  in  those  caven  s 
of  the  complacent  talking  man  :  this  appeared  to  her  too 
extreme  a  probation  for  two  or  three  weeks.  How  of  a  life- 
time of  it ! 

She  was  compelled  by  her  nature  to  hope,  expect,  and 
believe  that  Sir  Willoughby  would  again  be  the  man  she 
had  known  when  she  accepted  him.  Very  singularly,  to 
show  her  simple  spirit  at  the  time,  she  was  unaware  of  any 
physical  coldness  to  him  ;  s'  e  knew  of  nothing  but  her  mind 
at  work,  objecting  to  this  and  that,  desiring  changes.  She 
did  not  dream  of  being  on  the  giddy  ridge  of  the  passive  or 
negative  sentiment  of  love,  where  one  step  to  the  wrong  side 
precipitates  us  into  the  state  of  repulsion. 

Her  eyes  were  lively  at  their  meeting — so  were  his.  She 
liked  to  see  him  on  the  steps,  with  young  Crossjay  under  his 
arm.  Sir  "Willoughby  told  her  in  his  pleasantest  humour  of 
the  boy's  having  got  into  the  laboratory  that  morning  to 
escape  his  taskmaster,  and  blown  out  the  windows.  She 
administered  a  chiding  to  the  delinquent  in  the  same  spirit, 
while  Sir  Willoughby  led  her  on  his  arm  across  the  thresh- 
old, whispering,  "  Soon  for  good  !"  In  reply  to  the 
whisper,  she  begged  for  more  of  the  story  of  young  Crossjay. 
"Come  into  the  laboratory,"  said  he,  a  little  less  laughingly 
than  softly  ;  and  Clara  begged  her  father  to  come  and  see 
young  Crossjay's  latest  pranks.  Sir  Willoughby  whispered 
to  her  of  the  length  of  their  separation  and  his  joy  to  welcome 
her  to  the  house  where  she  would  reign  as  mistress  very 
soon.  He  numbered  the  weeks.  He  whispered,  "  Come." 
In  the  hurry  of  the  moment  she  did  not  examine  a  lightning 
terror  that  shot  through  her.  It  passed,  and  was  no  more 
than  the  shadow  which  bends  the  summer  grasses,  leaving  a 
ruffle  of  her  ideas,  in  wonder  of  her  having  feared  herself  for 
something.  Her  father  was  with  them.  She  and  Willoughby 
were  not  yet  alone. 

Young  Crossjay  had  not  accomplished  so  fine  a  piece  of 
destruction  as  Sir  Willoughby's  humour  proclaimed  of  him. 
He  had  connected  a  battery  with  a  train  of  gunpowder, 
shattering  a  window-frame  and  unsettling  some  bricks.     Dr. 


TB 

Middle!   •  'I  if  the  youth  was  excluded f rom  the  library, 

,m,l  i  to  hear  thai  it  was  a  sealed  door  to  him.  Thither 

Vernon  Whitford   was  away  on  one  of  his  long 

ks. 
"There,  papa,  you  see  he  is  not  so  very  faithful  to  you," 

said  Clara. 

Dr.  Middleton  stood  frowning  over  MS.  notes  on  the  table, 
in   Vernon's  handwriting.     He  flung  up  the  hair  from  his 
head  and   dropped   into   a    seat    to    inspect    them  closely. 
Be  was   now  immoveable.     Clara  was  obliged  to  leave  him 
there.     She  was   led  to  think  that  Willoughby  had  drawn 
them   to  the   binary  with    the  design   to   be  rid  of   her   pro- 
r.  and  she  began  to  fear  him.     She  proposed  to  pay  her 
..is  to  the  ladies   Eleanor  and   [sabel.     They  were  not 
d  a  footman  reported   in  the  drawing-room  that  they 
were  out  driving.     She  grasped  young  Crossjay's  hand.    Sir 
Willoughby  despatched  him  to  Mrs.  Montague,  the  house- 
per,  for  a  tea  of  cakes  and  jam. 
"  i  Iff  !"  he  said,  and  the  boy  had  to  run. 
Clara  saw  herself  without  a  shield. 
And   the  garden!"   she  cried.     "I  love  the  garden;  I 
must  go  and  see  what  flowers  are  up  with  you.     In  Spring  I 
care  most  for  wild  flowers, and  if  you  will  show  me  daffodils, 
and  crocuses,  and  anemones  .  .  .  ." 

Clara!  my  bride  !"  said  he. 
"  Because  they  are  vulgar  flowers?"  she  asked  him  art- 
lessly,  to  account  for  his  detaining  her. 

Why  would  he  not  wait  to  deserve  her! — no,  not  deserve 
—  to  reconcile  her  with   her  real  position;  not  reconcile,  but 
pair  the  image  of  him  in  her  mind,  before  he  claimed 
his  apparent  rigid  ! 

tie  did  not  wait.     He  pressed  her  to  his  bosom. 

'  Von  are  mine,  my    Clara      utterly  mine;   every  thought, 

Qg.      We    are   one:    the    world   may   do   its  worst. 

I  have  been  Longing  for  you,  looking  forward.     You  save  me 

a  thousand  vexations.    One  is  perpetually  crossed.    Thar, 

11  outside  us.      Wetwol     W  it  h  you  I  am  secure  !     Soon! 

tell  von  whether  the  world's  alive  or  dead.     My 

i  of  it  with   the  sensations  of  the  frightened 

•   dip  in  sea-water,  sharpened  to  think 

•I-  all  it  was   n  t   so   -e.    re   a  trial.     Such  was  her 


THE   is:  TKOTHED.  55 

idea  ;  and  she  said  to  herself  immediately  :  "What  am  I  that 
I  should  complain  ?  Two  minutes  earlier  she  would  not 
have  thought  it ;  but  humiliated  pride  falls  lower  than  hum- 
bleness. 

She  did  not  blame  him  ;  she  fell  in  her  own  esteem  ;  less 
because  she  was  the  betrothed  Clara  Middleton,  which  was 
now  palpable  as  a  shot  in  the  breast  of  a  bird,  than  that  she 
was  a  captured  woman,  of  whom  it  is  absolutely  expected 
that  she  must  submit,  and  when  she  would  rather  be  gazing 
at  flowers.  Clara  had  shame  of  her  sex.  They  cannot  take 
a  step  without  becoming  bondwomen ;  into  what  a  slavery  ! 
For  herself,  her  trial  was  over,  she  thought.  As  for  herself, 
she  merely  complained  of  a  prematureness  and  crudity  best 
unanalyzed.  In  truth,  she  could  hardly  be  said  to  complain. 
She  did  but  criticize  him  and  wonder  that  a  man  was  unable 
to  perceive,  or  was  not  arrested  by  perceiving,  unwilling- 
ness, discordance,  dull  compliance ;  the  bondwoman's  due 
instead  of  the  bride's  consent.  Oh,  sharp  distinction,  as 
between  two  spheres ! 

She  meted  him  justice  ;  she  admitted  that  he  had  spoken 
in  a  lover-like  tone.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  iteration  of 
'  the  world,'  she  would  not  have  objected  critically  to  his 
words,  though  they  were  words  of  downright  appropriation. 
He  had  the  right  to  use  them,  since  she  was  to  be  married 
to  him.  But  if  he  had  only  waited  before  playing  the  pri- 
vileged lover ! 

Sir  Willoughby  was  enraptured  with  her.  Even  so 
purely  coldly,  statue-like,  Dian-like,  would  he  have  pre- 
scribed his  bride's  reception  of  his  caress.  The  suffusion  of 
crimson  coming  over  her  subsequently,  showing  her  divinely 
feminine  in  reflective  bashfulness,  agreed  with  his  highest 
definitions  of  female  character. 

"  Let  me  conduct  you  to  the  garden,  my  love,"  he  said. 

She  replied,  "  I  think  I  would  rather  go  to  my  room." 

"  I  will  send  you  a  wild-flower  posy." 

"  Flowers,  no  ;  I  do  not  like  them  to  be  gathered." 

"I  will  wait  for  you  on  the  lawn." 

"  My  head  is  rather  heavy." 

His  deep  concern  and  tenderness  brought  him  close. 

She  assured  him  sparklingly  that  she  was  we'l :  she  was 
ready  to  accompany  him  to  the  garden  and  stroll  over  the 
park. 


ti; 

••  1 '  lid. 

I    t..    pav    the  fee   for   inviting  a   solicitous 
■t  leman  a  proximity. 

blamed  herself  and  him,  and  the  world  he 

■  •  y   into  the  bargain.     And  she  cared   less 

on;  I >u t    Bhe  craved   for  liberty.     With  a 

tonished   ber,  she  marvelled  al   tin-  acl   of 

I  .it  the  obligation  it  forced   upon  an   inanimate 

■I  accomplice.     Why  was  she   not  freer      By 

whal  right   was  it  that  she  was  treated  as  a  pos- 

••  I  will  try  to  walk  off  the  heaviness,"  she  said. 
"  M     own  girl  must  not  fatigue  herself." 
"I  >b,  no;   I  shall 
^ir   with    me       STonr    VTilloughby   is  your  devoted  at- 
I  ." 
••  I  I j .- 1 \  e  a  desire  for  the  air." 
•"  Then  we  will  walk  i     I 

is  horrified  to  think  how  far  she  had  drawn  away 
i  him.  ami  now  placed  her  hand   on   his   arm    to   app< 

-accusations  and  propitiate  duty.     He  Bpoke  as  she 
wished  ;  his  manner  was  what  she  had  wished  ;  she  was 
dmosl  bis  wife;  her  conduct  was  a  kind  of  mad- 
he  could  not  understand  it. 

36  and  duty  counselled   her  to  control  her  way- 

:  spirit. 

IN-  fondled  her  hand,  and  to  that  she  grew  accustomed; 

her  hand  was  al  a  distance.     And  what  is  a  hand?     Leaving 

-.  she  treated  it  as  a  link  between   herself   and 

dutiful  goodness.     Two  months  hence  she  was  a  bondwoman 

if e !     She  regretted  that  Bhe  had  not  gone  to  her  room 

ngthen   herself    with    a    review   of   her  situation,  and 

I  him  thoroughly  resigned  to  her  fair,     she  fancied  Bhe 

would  have  come  down  to  him  amicably.     Tt  was  his   pre- 

-  and  easj    conversation  that  tricked    her 

■ith     the    fanCV.        Five     weeks    of    perfect 

III  •  r  ;.  in  the  mountains,  she  thought,  would  have  prepared 

hells.       All    that    she    required     was    a 

ring    new  3,    where   she   might    reflect 

•  again. 

I  !•■  h  d  ber  about  the  flower-beds  ;  too  much  as  it  he  were 

a  '    an    airing.       She  chafi  d    at    it.   and 


THE  BETROTHED.  57 

pricked  herself  with  remorse.  In  contrition  she  expatiated 
on  ihe  beauty  of  the  garden. 

"  All  is  yours,  my  Clara." 

An  oppressive  load  it  seemed  to  her !  She  passively 
yielded  to  the  man  in  his  form  of  attentive  courtier;  his 
mansion,  estates,  and  wealth  overwhelmed  her.  They  sug- 
gested the  price  to  be  paid.  Yet  she  recollected  that  on  her 
last  departure  through  the  park  she  had  been  proud  of  the 
rolling  green  and  spreading  trees.  Poison  of  some  sort 
must  be  operating  in  her.  She  had  not  come  to  him  to-day 
with  this  feeling  of  sullen  antagonism;  she  had  caught  it 
here. 

"  You  have  been  well,  my  Clara  ?" 

"Quite."' 

"  Not  a  hint  of  illness  ?" 

"None." 

"  My  bride  must  have  her  health  if  all  the  doctors  in  the 
kingdom  die  for  it!     My  darling!" 

"  And  tell  me :  the  dogs  ?" 

"  Dogs  and  horses  are  in  very  good  condition." 

"  I  am  glad.  Do  you  know,  I  love  those  ancient  French 
chateaux  and  farms  in  one,  where  salon  windows  look  on 
poultry-yard  and  stalls.  I  like  that  homeliness  with  beasts 
and  peasants." 

He  bowed  indulgently. 

"  I  am  afraid  we  can't  do  it  for  yon  in  England,  my 
Clara." 

"  No." 

"  And  I  like  the  farm,"  said  he.  "  But  I  think  our  draw- 
ing-rooms have  a  better  atmosphere  off  the  garden.  As  to 
our  peasantry,  we  cannot,  I  apprehend,  modify  our  class 
demarcations  without  risk  of  disintegrating  the  social  struc- 
ture." 

"  Perhaps.     I  proposed  nothing." 

"  My  love,  I  would  entreat  you  to  propose,  if  I  were  con- 
vinced that  I  could  obey." 

"  You  are  very  good." 

"  I  find  my  merit  nowhere  but  in  your  satisfaction." 

Although  she  was  not  thirsting  for  dulcet  sayings,  the 
peacet'ulness  of  other  than  invitations  to  the  exposition  of 
his  mysteries  and  of  their  isolation  in  oneness,  inspired  her 
with   such  calm  that  she  beat  about  in  her  brain,  as   if  it 


■1  hi:  egoist. 


lit-  for  the  specific  injury  he  had  committed. 

i  ?ation,   the  yoting,   whom 

impel  and   distract,   can   rarely   date  their  dis- 

from  a   particular  one;   unless   it    be  some   great 

that  1 1 -•  i --  been  done:  and  Clara  bad  not  felt  an 

•lie  iii  his  caress;  the  shame  of  her  sex  was 

ng  protest  that  left  ao  stamp.     So  she  conceived 

I  been   behaving  cruelly,  and  said:  " "Willoughby ;" 

she  was  aware  of  the  omission  of  his  name  in  her 

j  •    marks. 

attention  was  given  to  her. 

She  had  to  invent   the  Beqnei:  "I  was  going  to  beg  yon, 

Willoughby,  do  not  seek  to  spoil  me.     You  compliment  me. 

i         pliments  are  not  suited  to  me.     You  think  too  highly  of 

marly  ;is  bad  as  to  be  slighted.      1  am  ....  1  am 

a  .  .  .  ."       But     she   could    not     follow    his    example:   even   as 

he   had  gone,  her  prim  In  tie   sketch  of   herself,    set 

real,  ugly,  earnest  feelings,  rang  of  a  mincing 

;v.  an> I   was    a  step  in    falseness.      How  could  she 

»lay    W  hat    -he   W;i  - 

'•  Do  1  not  know  your"  he  said. 

Tin-  melodious  bass  notes,  expressive  of  conviction  on  that 

a-  will  as  the  words,  that  no  answer  was  the 

•  r.     She  could   not  dissent  without   turning  his 

rd,  his  complacency  to  amazement.     She  held 

I  knowing  that    he  did  not  know  her,  and  specu- 

division   male  hare   by  their  degrees  of  the 

:  a  deep  cleft. 

He  alluded  to  friends  in  her  neighbourhood  and  his  own. 

The  bridesmaids  were  mentioned. 

i  will  hear  from  my  aunt  Eleanor,  declines, 

the  plea  of  indifferent    health.     She  is  rather  a  morbid 

with  all  her  really  estimable  qualities.     It  will  do  no 

harm    !•.    have    none    but    young  ladies   of    your   own    age;   a 

I  ang   buds:   though  one  blowing   flower  among 

n However,  Bhe  has  decided.     My  principal  am 

Vernon's  refusal  to  act  as  my  best  man." 
Mr.  W  hit  bud  refu 
"H<   ha!  I  do  not  take  no  from  him.    His  pretext 

i  to  t  he  ceremoi 

'"  I  it  with  him.*" 

oipathizc  with  you.     If  we  might  Bay  the  words  and 


THE  BETROTHED.  59 

pass  from  sight!  There  is  a  way  of  cutting  off  the  world: 
I  have  it  at  times  completely :  I  lose  it  again,  as  if  it  were  a 
cabalistic  phrase  one  had  to  utter.  But  with  you  !  You  give 
it  me  for  good.  It  will  be  for  ever,  eternally,  my  Clara. 
Nothing  can  harm,  nothing  touch  us;  we  are  one  another's. 
Let  the  world  fight  it  out :  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"  If  Mr.  Whitford  should  persist  in  refusing  ?" 

"  So  entirely  one,  that  there  never  can  be  question  of 
external  influences.  I  am,  we  will  say,  riding  home  from 
the  hunt  :  I  see  you  awaiting  me :  I  read  your  heart  as 
though  you  were  beside  me.  And  I  know  that  I  am  coming 
to  the  one  who  reads  mine  !  You  have  me,  you  have  me  like 
an  open  book,  you,  and  only  you  !" 

"  1  am  to  be  always  at  home  ?"  Clara  said,  unheeded,  and 
relieved  by  his  not  hearing. 

"  Have  you  realized  it  ? — that  we  are  invulnerable  !  The 
world  cannot  hurt  us  :  it  cannot  touch  us.  Felicity  is  ours, 
and  we  are  impervious  in  the  enjoyment  of  it.  Something 
divine  !  surely  something  divine  on  earth  ?  Clara  ! — being 
to  one  another  that  between  which  the  world  can  never  inter- 
pose !  What  I  do  is  right  :  what  you  do  is  right.  Perfect 
to  one  another !  Each  new  day  we  rise  to  study  and  delight 
in  new  secrets.  Away  with  the  crowd  !  We  have  not  even 
to  say  it ;  we  are  in  an  atmosphere  where  the  world  cannot 
breathe." 

"  0  the  world  !"  Clara  partly  carolled  on  a  sigh  that  sank 
deep. 

Hearing  him  talk  as  one  exulting  on  the  mountain  top, 
when  she  knew  him  to  be  in  the  abyss,  was  very  strange, 
provocative  of  scorn. 

"My  letters  ?"  he  said  incitingly. 

"  I  read  them." 

"  Circumstances  have  imposed  a  long  courtship  on  us,  my 
Clara:  and  I,  perhaps  lamenting  the  laws  of  decorum — I 
have  doue  so  ! — still  felt  the  benefit  of  the  gradual  initiation. 
It  is  not  good  for  women  to  be  surprised  by  a  sudden  revela- 
tion of  man's  character.  We  also  have  things  to  learn : — 
there  is  matter  for  learning  everywhere.  Some  day  you  will 
tell  me  the  difference  of  what  you  think  of  me  now,  from 
what  you  thought  when  we  first  ....?" 

An  impulse  of  double-minded  acquiescence  caused  Clara  to 
stammer  as  on  a  sob  : 


•in  T. 

•11  I   -li.-ill.'* 

SI  "  If  it  is  l 

Tl  ;   ..ut.      ••  Why  do  yon   attack  the  world? 

me  pity  it." 
II  i  :ii    her  youthful]  "I  have  passed  through 

It    leads    to  my   sentiment.      Pity    it,   by  all 

•  but  pity  it.  Bide  with  it,  not  consider  it 
>,.  l  The  world   lias    faults;    glaciers    have   crew 

have  chasms ;  but    is  not   the  effect  of  the  whole 

sublime?   not  t..  :i  Imire  the  mountain  and  the  glacier  because 

;i    be   cruel,    seems    to   me  ....  And  the  world  is 

it  il'ul." 

•' The  world  of  nature,  yes.     The  world  of  men  ?" 
-  V 

lv  love,   I    -aspect  you  to  be  thinking  of   the  world  of 
ball- 

••  I  am  thinking  of   the  worl  I  that  contains  real  and  great 

jjty,  true  heroism.     We  see  it  round  us." 
•'  We  read  of  it.     The  world  of  the  romance-writer!" 
MNo:   tlic   living  world.     I   am   >u re  it  is  our  duty  to  love 
ire  we   weaken  ourselves  if  we  do  not.      If  I  did 
I  should  be  looking  on  mist,  hearing  a  perpetual  boom 
of  music.     I    remember  hearing  Mr.  Whitford  say 
th.it  cynicism  is  intellectual  dandyism  without  the  coxcomb's 
'■r-;   and    it    seems  to  me  that  eynics  are  only  happy  in 
making  the  world  as  barren  to  others  us  they  have  made  it 
for  themselvi  - 

"Old  Vernon!"  ejaculated  Sir  Willoughby,  with  a  coun- 
oce  rather  uneasy,  as  if  it  had  been  flicked  with  a  glove. 
'■  He  strings  bis  phrases  by  the  dozen." 

'  Pa]  tradicts    that,   and  says   he  is  very  clever  and 

.  Bimpli 
"As  t"  cynics,  my  dear  Clara,   oh!  certainly,  certainly: 
you    are  right.      They  are   laughable,  contemptible.      But 
understand   me,   I   mean,   we  cannot  feel,  or  if  we  feel   we 
•    so   intensely   feel,   our   oneness,   except   by  dividing 
oil!  Erom  I  he  world." 

"  Is  it  an  an 

"If  you  like      It   is  our  poetry!     But  does  not  love  shun 
the   world  p     Two  that   love  must  have  their  substance  in 
■u." 


THE  BETROTHED.  61 

"  No:  they  will  be  eating  themselves  up." 

"  The  purer  the  beauty,  the  more  it  will  be  out  of  the 
world." 

"  But  not  opposed." 

"Put  it  in  this  way,"  Willoughby  condescended.  "Has 
experience  the  same  opinion  of  the  world  as  ignorance  ?" 

"  It  should  have  more  charity." 

"  Does  virtue  feel  at  home  in  the  world  ?" 

"  Where  it  should  be  an  example,  to  my  idea." 

"  Is  the  world  agreeable  to  holiness  V" 

"  Then,  are  you  in  favour  of  monasteries  ?" 

He  poured  a  little  runlet  of  half-laughter  over  her  head, 
of  the  sound  assumed  by  genial  compassion. 

It  is  irritating  to  hear  that  when  we  imagine  we  have 
spoken  to  the  point. 

"  Now  in  my  letters,  Clara  .  .   .  ." 

"  I  have  no  memory,  Willoughby!" 

"  You  will  however  have  observed  that  I  am  not  com- 
pletely myself  in  my  letters  .  .  .   ." 

"  In  your  letters  to  men,  you  may  be." 

The  remark  threw  a  pause  across  his  thoughts.  He  was 
of  a  sensitiveness  terribly  tender.  A  single  stroke  on  it 
reverberated  swellingly  within  the  man,  and  most,  and  in- 
furiately  searching,  at  the  spots  where  he  had  been  wounded, 
especially  where  he  feared  the  world  might  have  guessed  the 
wound.  Did  she  imply  that  he  had  no  hand  for  love-letters  ? 
Was  it  her  meaning  that  women  would  not  have  much  taste 
for  his  epistolary  correspondence  ?  She  had  spoken  in  the ' 
plural,  with  an  accent  on  "  men."  Had  she  heard  of  Con- 
stantia  ?  Had  she  formed  her  own  judgement  about  the 
creature?  The  supernatural  sensitiveness  of  Sir  Willoughby 
shrieked  a  peal  of  affirmatives.  He  had  often  meditated  on 
the  moral  obligation  of  his  unfolding  to  Clara  the  whole 
truth  of  his  conduct  to  Constantia  ;  for  whom,  as  for  other 
suicides,  there  were  excuses.  He  at  least  was  bound  to 
supply  them.  She  had  behaved  badly ;  but  had  he  not 
given  her  some  cause  ?  If  so,  manliness  was  bound  to 
confess  it. 

Supposing  Clara  heard  the  world's  version  first  !  Men 
whose  pride  is  their  backbone  suffer  convulsions  where  other 
men  are  barely  aware  of  a  shock,  and  Sir  Willoughby  was 
taken  with  galvanic  jumpings  of  the  spirit  within  him,  at 


Til 

lea  of  the  world  whispering  bo  Clara  that  he  had  been 

jilt 

••  M\  men,  yen  Bay,  my  Love  P" 

••  ">  our  In  ters  of  busine 

lompletely   myself   in   my   letters   of   business  P"      He 

ed. 

She  relaxed  the  tension  of  his  figure  by  remarking  :  "  Ton 

kble  to  express  yourself  to  men  as  your  meaning  dic- 

ln   writing  to  ...  .   to  us  it  is,  I  suppose,  moro 

difficult." 

••  True,  my  lore.     I  will  not  exactly  say  difficult.     I  can 
acknowledge  no  difficulty.     Language,  I   should  .say,  is  not 
fitted  to  express  emotion.     Passion  rejects  it." 
•■  For  dumb-show  and  pantomime?" 
"N»:  Inn  the  writing  of  it  coldly." 
"  Ah,  coldly!" 

"  My  letters  disappoint  you  P" 
"  I  bare  not  Implied  that  they  do." 

M  My  feelings,  dearest,  are  too  strong  for  transcription.  I 
feel,  pen  in  hand,  like  the  mythological  Titan  at  war  with 
Jove,  strong  enough  to  hurl  mountains,  an  1  finding  nothing 
but  pebbles.  The  simile  is  a  good  one.  You  must  not  judge 
ot  me  by  my  \ei  tors." 

I  do  not;  I  like  them,"  said  Clara. 
She  blushed,  eyed  him  hurriedly,  and  seeing  him  com- 
placent,  resumed:  "I  prefer  the  pebble  to  the  mountain; 
if  you   read   poetry  you  would  not  think  human  speech 
ile  of  .  .  .  ." 
••  My  hive.  I  detesl  artifice.     Poetry  is  a  profession." 
M  Our  poets  would,  prove  to  yon  .  .  .  ." 
"As  I  have  often  observed,  Clara.  I  am  no  poet." 
"  I  have  nol  accused  you,  Willoughby." 

"  N"  | t,  and   with  no  wish  to  he  a  poet.     Were  I  one, 

mv  life  would  supply  material,  I  can  assure  you,  my  love. 

.'I  no;   entirely  at    refit.       Perhaps  the  heaviest 

i  troubling  it  is   thai    in   which    I    was  least  wilfully 

guilty.     Yon  h  ive  heard  of  a  Mist  D  irham?" 
"■  1  have  hi  ard     yes     of  her." 

may    be   happy.      I    trust    she   is.      If  she   is   not,  I 
le   blame.     An   instance  of  the  difference 
[f  and   the   world,  now.      The  world  charges   it 
up  ui  her.      I  have  i:.  .1  to  exonerate  her." 


TnK  BETROTHED.  G3 

"  That  was  generous,  Willoughby." 

"  Stay.  I  fear  I  was  the  primary  offender.  Bat  I,  Clara, 
I,  under  a  sense  of  honour,  acting  under  a  sense  of  honour, 
would  have  carried  my  engagement  through." 

"  What  had  you  done  ?" 

"  The  story  is  long,  dating  from  an  early  day,  in  the 
'  downy  antiquity  of  my  youth,'  as  Vernon  says." 

"  Mr.  Whitfor'd  says  that  ?" 

"  One  of  old  Vernon's  odd  sayings.  It's  a  story  of  an 
early  fascination." 

"  Papa  tells  me  Mr.  Whitford  speaks  at  times  with  wise 
humour." 

"  Family  considerations — the  lady's  health  among  other 
things  ;  her  position  in  the  calculations  of  relatives — inter- 
vened. Still  there  was  the  fascination.  I  have  to  own  it. 
Grounds  for  feminine  jealousy." 

"  Is  it  at  an  end  ?" 

"  Now  ?  with  you  ?  my  darling  Clara !  indeed  at  an  end,  or 
could  I  have  opened  my  inmost  heart  to  you !  Could  I  have 
spoken  of  myself  so  unreservedly  that  in  part  you  know  me 
as  I  know  myself  !  Oh  !  but  would  it  have  been  possible  to 
enclose  you  with  myself  in  that  intimate  union  ?  so  secret, 
unassailable !" 

"  You  did  not  speak  to  her  as  you  speak  to  me  ?" 

"  In  no  degree." 

"  What  could  have !  .  .  ."  Clara  checked  the  murmured 
exclamation. 

Sir  Willoughby 's  expoundings  on  his  latest  of  texts  would 
have  poured  forth,  had  not  a  footman  stepped  across  the 
lawn  to  inform  him  that  his  builder  was  in  the  laboratory 
and  requested  permission  to  consult  with  him. 

Clara's  plea  of  a  horror  of  a  talk  of  bricks  and  joists 
excused  her  from  accompanying  him.  He  had  hardly  been 
satisfied  by  her  manner,  he  knew  not  why.  He  left  her, 
convinced  that  he  must  do  and  say  more  to  reach  down  to 
her  female  intelligence. 

She  saw  young  Crossjay,  springing  with  pots  of  jam  in 
him,  join  his  patron  at  a  bound,  and  taking  a  lift  of  arms, 
fly  aloft,  clapping  heels.  Her  reflections  were  confused.  Sir 
Willoughby  was  admirable  with  the  lad.  "Is  he  two  men  ?" 
she  thought :  and  the  thought  ensued  :  "  Am  I  unjust  r"  She 
headed  a  run  with  young  Crossjay  to  divert  her  mind. 


ill  Tli  T. 

CnAPTEK  VIII. 

▲  RCN  WITH  TIM.  TED  ANT:  A  WALK  WITH  THE  MASTER. 

Ti  of    Miss  Middleton   running  inflamed  young 

with  the  passion  of  tin'  game  of  hare  and  hounds. 

He  shouted  a  view-halloo,  and  flung  up  his  legs.     She  was 

lie  ran  as  though  a  hundred  little  feet  were  bearing 

her  onward  sn tli  as  water  over  the  lawn  and  the  sweeps 

of  the  park,  SO  swiftly  did  the  hidden  pair  multiply 
another  to  speed  her.  So  sweet  was  she  in  her  flowing 
:  ,  tli  it  the  boy,  as  became  his  age,  translated  admiration 
into  a  doirged  frenzy  of  pursuit,  and  continued  pounding 
alone;,  when  Ear  outstripped,  determined  to  run  her  down  or 
die.  Suddenly  her  flight  wound  to  an  end  in  a  dozen  twitter- 
ing Bteps,  and  she  sank.  Young  Crossjay  attained  her,  with 
just  breath  enough  to  say:  "  You  are  a  runner!" 

"  I  forgot  you  had  been  having  your  tea,  my  poor  boy," 
6aid  she. 

"  And  you  don't  pant  a  bit!"  was  his  encomium. 
"  Dear  me,  no  ;  not  more  than  a  bird.     You  might  as  well 
try  t<>  catch  a  bird." 

Young  Crossjay  gave  a  knowing  nod.     "Wait  till  I  get 
my  second  wind." 

STow  you  must  confess  that  girls  run  faster  than  boys." 
"  They  may  at  the  start." 
"  They  do  everything  better." 
"  They're  flash-in-the-pans." 
"  They  learn  their  lessons." 

"  You  can't  make  soldiers  or  sailors  of  them,  though.*' 

"And    that    is   untrue.       Have   you    never    read   of    "Mary 

tree?  and  Mistress  Hannah  Snell  of  Pondicherry  ?    And 

there  was  the  bride  of  the  celebrated  William  Taylor.     And 

■    do  you   >.i\    to  Joan  of  Arc?     What  do  you   sav   to 

1  snppose  vnit  have  never  heard  of  the  Amazons." 

-  They  weren't  English." 

'  Then,  it  is  yonr  own  country  worn  n  you  decry,  sir!" 
Young  Cr  betrayed  anxiety  about  his  false  position, 

and  begged   for  the  stories  of  Mary  Ambree  and  the  others 
were  Encd i  h. 


A  RUN  WITH  TIIE  TRUANT.  65 

"  See,  yon  will  not  read  for  yourself,  you  liide  and  play 
truant  with  Mr.  Whitford,  and  the  consequence  is  you  are 
ignorant  of  your  country's  history  !"  Miss  Middleton  re- 
buked him,  enjoying  his  wriggle  between  a  perception  of  her 
fun  and  an  acknowledgement  of  his  peccancy.  She  com- 
manded him  to  tell  her  which  was  the  glorious  Valentine's 
day  of  our  naval  annals  ;  the  name  of  the  hero  of  the  day, 
and  the  name  of  his  ship.  To  these  questions  his  answers 
were  as  ready  as  the  guns  of  the  good  ship  Captain  for  the 
Spanish  four-decker. 

"  And  that  you  owe  to  Mr.  Whitford,"  said  Miss  Middle- 
ton. 

"  He  bought  me  the  books,"  young  Crossjay  growled,  and 
plucked  at  grass-blades  and  bit  them,  foreseeing  dimly  but 
certainly  the  termination  of  all  this. 

Miss  Middleton  lay  back  on  the  grass,  and  said:  "  Are  you 
going  to  be  fond  of  me,  Crossjay  ?" 

The  boy  sat  blinking.  His  desire  was  to  prove  to  her  that 
he  was  immoderately  fond  of  her  already  ;  and  he  might 
have  tlown  at  her  neck  had  she  been  sitting  up,  but  her 
recumbency  and  eyelids  half  closed  excited  wonder  in  him 
and  awe.     His  young  heart  beat  fast. 

"  Because,  my  dear  boy,"  she  said,  leaning  on  her  elbow, 
"you  are  a  very  nice  boy,  but  an  ungrateful  boy,  and  there 
is  no  telling  whether  you  will  not  punish  any  one  who  cares 
for  you.  Come  along  with  me  ;  pluck  me  some  of  these  cow- 
slips, and  the  speedwells  near  them  ;  I  think  we  both  love 
wild-flowers."  She  rose  and  took  his  arm.  "You  shall  row 
me  on  the  lake  while  I  talk  to  you  seriously." 

It  was  she,  however,  who  took  the  sculls  at  the  boathouse, 
for  she  had  been  a  playfellow  with  boys,  and  knew  that  one 
of  them  engaged  in  a  manly  exercise  is  not  likely  to  listen 
to  a  woman. 

"Now,  Crossjay,"  she  said.  Dense  gloom  overcame  him 
like  a  cowl.  She  bent  across  her  hands  to  laugh.  "As  if  I 
were  going  to  lecture  you,  you  silly  boy !"  He  began  to 
brighten  dubiously.  "I  used  to  be  as  fond  of  birdsnesting 
as  you  are.  I  like  brave  boys,  and  I  like  you  for  wanting 
to  enter  the  royal  navy.  Only,  how  can  you  if  you  do  not 
learn  ?  You  must  get  the  captains  to  pass  you,  you  know. 
Somebody  spoils  you  :  Miss  Dale  or  Mr.  Whitford." 

"  Do  they  !"  sang  out  young  Crossjay 

V 


MM      I 

Willoughby  di 
"  l  don't  know  about  spoil.     I  can  come  round  him." 
*•  |  ire  be  is  very  kind  to  you,     I  daresay  yon  think 

:-,|  rat]  Y"u  Bbould  remember  he  baa 

.  that  you  may  pass  for  the  navy.     Sou  must 
e  he  mi  m  work.     Supposing  you 

iraelf  ap  to-daj  !     ion  would   have  thought  it 
better  to  have  been  working  with  Mr.  Whitford." 

Sir  Willonghbj  when  he's  married,  yon  won't  let 

bide." 

\h!     It  is  wrong  to  pet  a  big  boy  like  you.     Does  not. 
he  w  hat  yon  call  tip  you,  <  !roa  jaj 

"Generally   half-crown   pieces.     I've  had  a  crown-piece. 
l'\ e  had  si  as." 

"Ai   I    for  that  yon  do  as  he  bids  yon?  and  he  indulges 

yon   I"-  "i Well,   but  though    .Mr.   Whitford 

on  money,  he  gives  yon  his  time,  he  tries  to 
•■I  into  the  na\ 
••||    pa   b  for  in* 
M  What  do  yon  say  P" 

p.  And,  as  for  liking  him,  if  he  were  ;it  the 
bottom  of  the  water  here,  I'd  go  down  alter  him.  I  mean 
to  learn.  We're  both  of  us  lure  at  sis  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  it's  light,  and  have  a  swim.  He  taught  me.  Only, 
I  never  cared  for  school-books." 

•     \re  you  quite  certain  that  Mr.  Whitford  pays  for  yon?" 

"My  taller   told    me    lie  did,  and   I    must  obey  him.      He 

heard  my  father  was  pom-,  with  ;i  family.     He  went  down 

iy  father.     My  f athei   came  here  once,  and  Sir  Wil- 

;hWy  wouldn't  see  him.    I  know  Mr.  Whitford  docs.     Ami 

Miss  Dale  told   me  he  did.     Mv  mother  savs  she  thinks  ho 

-    it    to   make   up  to  us    for   my  father's    long  walk  in  the 

a  and  the  e  .Id  he  caught  coming  heir  to  Patterne." 

you  should  not  ve\  him,  0ro88Jay.  Be  is  a 
good  friend  to  your  father  and  to  you.  You  ought  to  love 
him." 

'■  I  like  him,  and  f  like  bis  face." 
"Why  hia  face?" 

"  I'  -  riot  like  those  faces!  Miss  Hale  and  f  talk  about 
him.  She  think-  that  Sir  Willoughby  is  the  best-looking 
i  born." 

"  Were  you  not  speaking  of  Mr.  Whitford  P" 


A  RUN  WITH  THE  TRUANT.  07 

"  Yes ;  old  Vernon.  That's  what  Sir  Willoughby  calls 
him,"  young  Crossjay  excused  himself  to  her  look  of  surprise. 
"  Do  you  know  what  he  makes  me  think  of  ? — his  eyes,  I 
mean.  He  makes  me  think  of  Robinson  Crusoe's  old  goat 
in  the  cavern.  I  like  him  because  he's  always  the  same, 
and  you're  not  positive  about  some  people.  Miss  Middleton, 
if  you  look  on  at  cricket,  in  comes  a  safe  man  for  ten  runs, 
lie  may  get  more,  and  he  never  gets  less ;  and  you  should 
hear  the  old  farmers  talk  of  him  in  the  booth.  That's  just 
my  feeling." 

Miss  Middleton  understood  that  some  illustration  from  the 
cricketing-field  was  intended  to  throw  light  on  the  boy's  feel- 
ing for  Mr.  Whitford.  Young  Crossjay  was  evidently  warm- 
ing to  speak  from  his  heart.  But  the  sun  was  low,  she  hud 
to  dress  for  the  dinner- table,  and  she  landed  him  with  regret, 
as  at  a  holiday  over.  Before  they  parted,  he  offered  to  swim 
across  the  lake  in  his  clothes,  or  dive  to  the  bed  for  anything 
she  pleased  to  throw,  declaring  solemnly  that  it  should  not 
be  lost. 

She  walked  back  at  a  slow  pace,  and  sang  to  herself  above 
her  darker-flowing  thoughts,  like  the  reed-warbler  on  the 
biauch  beside  the  night-stream  ;  a  simple  song  of  a  light- 
hearted  sound,  independent  of  the  shifting  black  and  grey 
of  the  flood  underneath. 

A  step  was  at  her  heels. 

"  I  see  you  have  been  petting  my  scapegrace." 

"  Mr.  Whitford  !  Yes ;  not  petting,  I  hope.  I  tried  to 
give  him  a  lecture.     He's  a  dear  lad,  but,  I  fancy,  trying." 

She  was  in  fine  sunset  colour,  unable  to  arrest  the  mount- 
ing tide.  She  had  been  rowing,  she  said;  and,  as  he  directed 
his  eyes,  according  to  his  wont,  penetratingly,  she  defended 
herself  by  fixing  her  mind  on  Robinson  Crusoe's  old  goat  in 
the  recess  of  the  cavern. 

"  I  must  have  him  away  from  here  very  soon,"  said  Vernon. 
"  Here  he's  quite  spoilt.  Speak  of  him  to  Willoughby.  I 
can't  guess  at  his  ideas  of  the  boy's  future,  but  the  chance  of 
passing  for  the  navy  won't  bear  trifling  with,  and  if  ever 
there  was  a  lad  made  for  the  navy,  it's  Crossjay." 

The  incident  of  the  explosion  in  the  laboratory  was  new 
to  Vernon. 

"  And  Willoughby  laughed  ?"  he  said.  "  There  are  sea- 
port crammers  who  stuff  young  fellows  for  examination,  and 

F2 


Ill 

re  ♦"  pack  off  tii-'  boy  al  once  to  Hie  be  I  one  of 

|  I  would  ral  her  have  had  him  under  me 

to  the   last   three  months,  and    have  made  sure  of  some 

what  is  knocked  into  his  head.    Bui  he's  ruined  here. 

And  I  amgoinf       S     [shall  not  trouble  him  for  man  y  wei 

I  »r.  Middleton  i-  well! 

"My   father  is   well,  yes.     Ho  pounced  like  a  falcon  on 

in  t  he  library." 
\  i  in. m  came  oul  with  a  chuckle. 
"Thej    were  left   to  attract    him.     I  am  in  for  a  contro- 

••  Papa  will  7i"t  sparr  \i.ii.  in  judge  from  his  look." 

M  I  know  t  he  lool 

'•  I  l.i .  e  you  walked  far  to-day 

'•  Nine  and  a  half  limns.  My  Flibbertigibbet  is  too  much 
f or  1  and  ]  had  to  walk  off  my  temper." 

She  casl  her  eyes  <>n  him,  thinking  of  the  pleasure  of 
dealing  with  a  temper  honestly  coltish,  and  manfully  open 
1    a  Rpecitic. 

■•All  t  hose  hours  were  required  ?" 
•  •!  quite  so  long." 

'■  You  arc  training  for  your  Alpine  tour." 

" It's  doubtful  whether  I  shall  get  to  the  Alps  this  year. 
I  leave  the  Hall,  ami  shall  probably  bo  in  London  with  a 
]>"ii  to  Bell." 

■■  Willoughbj  knows  thai  you  leave  him  p" 

••  As  much  as  Mont  Blanc  knows  thai  he  is  going  to  be 
climbed  by  a  party  below.     He  sees  a  speck  or  two  in  the 

"  He  1  be  poken  of  it." 

"  He  would  attribute  il  to  changes  .  .  .  ." 
imii  did  nut  conclude  t  he  sentence. 

She  became  breathless,  without  emotion,  but  checked  by 
the  barrier  confronting  an  impulse  to  ask,  what  changes? 
Shi  d  to  pluck  a  cowslip. 

I     aw  daffodils   lower  down  the  park,"  she  said.     "One 
or  t  ■  o  ;  1  hi  ;.   i  e  marly  over." 

"  W<  ll-off  for  wild  flower-  here,"  he  answered. 

"  I'  him,  Mr.  Whitford." 

"  He  will  not  want  me." 

"  V'  □  are  deroti  'I  to  him." 

"1  can'1  pretend  thai  " 


A  RUN  WITH  THE  TRUANT.  C9 

"  Thon  it  is  the  changes  you  imagine  you  foresee  .  .  ,.  .  ? 
ff  any  occur,  why  should  they  drive  you  away  r" 

"  Well,  I'm  two  and  thirty,  and  have  never  been  in  the 
fray :  a  kind  of  nondescript,  half-scholar,  and  by  nature  half 
billman  or  bowman  or  musketeer;  if  I'm  worth  anything, 
London's  the  field  for  me.     But  that's  what  I  have  to  try." 

"  Papa  will  not  like  your  serving  with  your  pen  in 
London  :  he  will  say  you  are  worth  too  much  for  that." 

"  Good  men  are  at  it ;  I  should  not  care  to  be  ranked 
above  them." 

"  They  are  wasted,  he  says." 

"  Error  !  If  they  have  their  private  ambition,  they  may 
suppose  they  are  wasted.  But  the  value  to  the  world  of  a 
private  ambition  I  do  not  clearly  understand." 

"  You  have  not  an  evil  opinion  of  the  world  ?"  said  Miss 
Middleton,  sick  at  heart  as  she  spoke,  with  the  sensation  of 
having  invited  herself  to  take  a  drop  of  poison. 

He  replied :  "  One  might  as  well  have  an  evil  opinion  of  a 
river :  here  it's  muddy,  there  it's  clear ;  one  day  troubled, 
another  at  rest.     We  have  to  treat  it  with  common  sense." 

"  Love  it  ?" 

"  In  the  sense  of  serving  it." 

"  Not  think  it  beautiful  ?" 

"  Part  of  it  is,  part  of  it  the  reverse." 

"  Papa  would  quote  the  '  mulier  formosa.' " 

"  Except  that  '  fish '  is  too  good  for  the  black  extremity. 
'  Woman '  is  excellent  for  the  upper." 

"  How  do  you  say  that  ? — not  cynically,  I  believe.  Your 
view  commends  itself  to  my  leison." 

She  was  grateful  to  him  for  not  stating  it  in  ideal  con- 
trast with  Sir  Willoughby's  view.  If  he  had,  so  intensely 
did  her  youthful  blood  desire  to  be  enamoured  of  the  world, 
that  she  felt  he  would  have  lifted  her  off  her  feet.  For  a 
moment  a  gulf  beneath  had  been  threatening.  When  she 
said,  "  Love  it  ?"  a  little  enthusiasm  would  have  wafted  her 
into  space  fierily  as  wine ;  but  the  sober,  "  In  the  sense  of 
serving  it,"  entered  her  brain,  and  was  matter  for  reflection 
upon  it  and  him. 

She  could  think  of  him  in  pleasant  liberty,  uncorrected  by 
her  woman's  instinct  of  peril.  He  had  neither  arts  nor 
graces ;  nothing  of  his  cousin's  easy  social  front-face.  She 
had  once  witnessed  the  military  precision  of  his  dancing, 


II  T. 

iiim  In!'  |  to  pray  t hat 

the   victim  nt    it   as   Ins   partner.     He 

illv.  his  pedestrian  rigour  being  famous,  hut 

-  i .in-  who  walks  away  From  the  sex,  aol  excelling 

in  i  as  when    nun  and  women   join  hands.     Be 

i a n  rit  her.    Sir  Willoughby  enjoj  ed 
■  hi  horseback.     And   he  could  scarcely  he  said   to 
a  a  drawing-room,  nnless  when  seated  besides  pe 

.;     talk.  M    more    than     liis    merits,    liis 

erits  pointed  him  out  as  a  man  to  l>"  a  friend  to  a  young 

an  who  wantt  Sis  way  <>f  life  pictured  to  her 

piril    an    enviable   smoothness:   and    bis   having 

ih  way  sin-  considered  a  sign  of  strength; 

1  to  lean  in   idea  upon  Borne  friendly  strength. 

i-  indifference  to  the  frivolous  charms  <>f 

ithed  hiin  with  a  noble  coldness,  and  gave  him  the 

■  n  solitary  iceberg  in  Southern  wal 

The  popular  notion  of  hereditary  titled  aristocracy  resembles 

her  For  a  man  thai  would  not  flatter  and  could  not 

be   Battered   b)    her  Bex:    he  appeared   superior   almost   to 

young,   lint    she  had    received   much 

il    she  had  been  Bnared ;  and  he, 

bs  or  to  cast  a  thought 

appeared  to  her  to  have  a  pride  founded  on 

■ 

■i    for   a   while,  when  Vernon   said 
ly  :  "The  boy's  future  rather  depends  on  you,  M 

I   mean  to  have  as  soon  as  possible,  and  I  do 
like  h  without  me,  though  you    will  look 

■  1" i tii.  I  have  no  doubt.     Bui  you   maj  not   at   first 
where  the  spoiling  hurts  him.     He  should  be  packed  off  at 

.  before  you  are   Lady  Patterne.     Dse 
Willoughby  will   Buppori   the  lad  at  your 
osi    cannol    be   great.      There   are   Btrong 
linrt   my  having  him  in  London,  even  if  I  could 
on  Mm  r" 
it:    I   will  do  my  best,"  said   Miss  Mid- 
dle 1. 

In-  lawn,  where  Sir  Willoughby  was 
-    Eleanor   and   Isabel,   Ins  maiden 


A  EON  WITH  THE  TRUANT.  71 

"  You  seem  to  have  coursed  the  hare  and  captured  the 
hart :"  he  said  to  his  bride. 

"  Started  the  truant  and  run  down  the  paedagogue,"  said 
Vernon. 

"  Ay,  you  won't  listen  to  me  about  the  management  of 
that  boy,"  Sir  Willoughby  retorted. 

The  ladies  embraced  Miss  Middleton.  One  offered  up  an 
ejaculation  in  eulogy  of  her  looks,  the  other  of  her  health- 
fulness  :  then  both  remarked  that  with  indulgence  young 
Crossjay  could  be  induced  to  do  anything.  Clara  wondered 
whether  inclination  or  Sir  Willoughby  had  disciplined  their 
individuality  out  of  them  and  made  them  his  shadows,  his 
echoes.  She  gazed  from  them  to  him,  and  feared  him.  But 
as  yet  she  had  not  experienced  the  power  in  him  which 
could  threaten  and  wrestle  to  subject  the  members  of  his 
household  to  the  state  of  satellites.  Though  she  had  in  fact 
been  giving  battle  to  it  for  several  months,  she  had  held  her 
own  too  well  to  perceive  definitely  the  character  of  the  spirit 
opposing  her. 

She  said  to  the  ladies :  "  Ah,  no !  Mr.  Whitford  has 
chosen  the  only  method  for  teaching  a  boy  like  Crossjay." 

"  I  propose  to  make  a  man  of  him,"  said  Sir  Willoughby. 

"  What  is  to  become  of  him  if  he  learns  nothing  ?" 

"  If  he  pleases  me,  he  will  be  provided  for.  I  have  never 
abandoned  a  dependant." 

Clara  let  her  eyes  rest  on  his,  and  without  turning  or 
dropping,  shut  them. 

The  effect  was  discomforting  to  him.  He  was  very  sensi- 
tive to  the  intentions  of  eyes  and  tones ;  which  was  one 
secret  of  his  rigid  grasp  of  the  dwellers  in  his  household. 
They  were  taught  that  they  had  to  render  agreement  under 
sharp  scrutiny.  Studious  eyes,  devoid  of  warmth,  devoid  of 
the  shyness  of  sex,  that  suddenly  closed  on  their  look, 
signified  a  want  of  comprehension  of  some  kind,  it  might  be 
hostility  of  understanding.  Was  it  possible  he  did  not 
possess  her  utterly  ?     He  frowned  up. 

Clara  saw  the  lift  of  his  brows,  and  thought :  "  My  mind 
is  my  own,  married  or  not." 

It  was  the  point  in  dispute. 


7j  Tin:  BG01    r. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

OLARi  AND  I.  1  UNA   MEET:    III  IV  ABE  COMPARED. 

.  hour  before  the  time  for  Lessons  next   morning1  young 

,■  was  on  the  lawn  with  a  big  bunch  of  wild-flowers. 
He  left  them  at  the  Hall-door  for  .Miss  Middleton,  and 
vanished  into  bush 

These  vulgar   weeds  were   about  to  be  dismissed  to  the 

dust-heap  by  the  great  officials  of  the  household;   but  as  it 

happened    thai    Miss    Middleton    had    seen   them    from   the 

window  in   Crossjay's   hands,  the  discovery  was  made  that 

they  were  indeed   his   presentation-bouquet,  and  a  footman 

ived    orders  to    place  them   before  her.     She  was  very 

pleased.     The  arrangement  of  the  flowers  bore  witness  to 

fairer  fingers   than   the  boy's  own  in  the  disposition  of  the 

%a   of    colour,    red    campion    and    anemone,   cowslip  and 

Lwell,  primroses  and    wood-hyacinths;    and  rising  out 

•  •t    the  blue  was  a  branch  bearing  thick  "white  blossom,  so 

thick,   and  of  so  pure  a   whiteness,   that    Miss    Middleton, 

while  praising  Crossjay  for  soliciting  the  aid  of  Miss  Dale, 

■\\  as  at  a  loss  to  name  tin    tree. 

"  It  is  a  gardener's  improvement  on  the  Vestal  of  the 
-t,  the  wild  cherry,"  said  Dr.  Middleton,  "  and  in  this 
case  we  may  admit  the  gardener's  claim  to  be  valid,  though 
I  believe  that,  with  his  <rd't  of  double-blossom,  he  has  im- 
proved away  the  fruit.  Call  this  the  Vestal  of  civilization, 
then;  he  has  at  least  done  something  to  vindicate  the  beauty 
of  the  office  as  well  as  the  justness  of  the  title." 

•  It    is    Vernon's    Ib'lv    Tree    the    young  rascal   has  been 

toiling,"  said  Sir  Willoughby  merrily. 
Miss  Middleton    was  informed    that    this  double-blossom 
wild  cherry-tree  was  worshipped  by  Mr.  Wbitford, 

.vir  Willoughby    promised    he  would    conduct  her  to    it. 

'  ^  on,  '  he  said  to  her.  "can  bear  the  trial;  few  complexions 

can;    it  is  to    most    ladies    a    crueller    test    than    snow.      Miss 

Dale,  for  example,  becomes  old  lace  within  a  dozen  yards  of 

I  should  like  to  place  her   under-  the  tree  beside  you." 

r  me,  though ;  but  that   i^  investing  the  hamadryad 

with  d    terrible    functions,"    exclaimed    Dr.    Mid. 

diet 


CLARA  AND  UETJTIA  MEET.  73 

Clara  said,  "  Miss  Dale  could  drag  me  into  a  superior 
Court  to  show  me  fading  beside  her  in  gifts  more  valuable 
than  a  complexion." 

"  She  has  a  fine  ability,"  said  Vernon. 

All  the  world  knew,  so  Clara  knew  of  Miss  Dale's 
romantic  admiration  of  Sir  Willoughby ;  she  was  curious  to 
see  Miss  Dale  and  study  the  nature  of  a  devotion  that  might 
be,  within  reason,  imitable — for  a  man  who  could  speak  with 
such  steely  coldness  of  the  poor  lady  he  had  fascinated  ? 
Well,  perhaps  it  was  good  for  the  hearts  of  women  to  be 
beneath  a  frost ;  to  be  schooled,  restrained,  turned  inward 
on  their  dreams.  Yes,  then,  his  coldness  was  desireable ;  it 
encouraged  an  ideal  of  him.  It  suggested  and  seemed  to 
propose  to  Clara's  mind  the  divineness  of  separation  instead 
of  the  deadly  accuracy  of  an  intimate  perusal.  She  tried  to 
look  on  him  as  Miss  Dale  might  look,  and  while  partly  des- 
pising her  for  the  dupery  she  envied,  and  more  than  criti- 
cizing him  for  the  inhuman  numbness  of  sentiment  which 
offered  up  his  worshipper  to  point  a  complimentary  com- 
parison, she  was  able  to  imagine  a  distance  whence  it  would 
be  possible  to  observe  him  uncritically,  kindly,  admiringly ; 
as  the  moon  a  handsome  mortal,  for  example. 

In  the  midst  of  her  thoughts,  she  surprised  herself  by 
saying,  "  I  certainly  was  difficult  to  instruct.  I  might  see 
things  clearer  if  I  had  a  fine  ability.  I  never  remember  to 
have  been  perfectly  pleased  with  my  immediate  lesson  .  .  .  ." 

She  stopped,  wondering  whither  her  tong-ue  was  leading 
her ;  then  added,  to  save  herself,  "  And  that  may  be  why  I 
feel  for  poor  Crossjay." 

Mr.  Whitford  apparently  did  not  think  it  remarkable  that 
she  should  have  been  set  off  gabbling  of  '  a  fine  ability,' 
though  the  eulogistic  phrase  had  been  pronounced  by  him 
with  an  impressiveness  to  make  his  ear  aware  of  an  echo. 

Sir  Willoughby  dispersed  her  vapourish  confusion. 
"  Exactly,"  he  said.  "I  have  insisted  with  Vernon,  I  don't 
know  how  often,  that  you  must  have  the  lad  by  his  affec- 
tions. He  won't  bear  driving.  It  had  no  effect  on  me. 
Boys  of  spirit  kick  at  it.     I  think  I  know  boys,  Clara." 

He  found  himself  addressing  eyes  that  regarded  him  as 
though  he  were  a  small  spejk,  a  pin's  head,  in  the  circle  of 
their  remote  contemplation.     They  were  wide  ;  they  closed. 

She  opened  them  to  gaze  elsewhere. 


7  I  mi    i  ,  i]    r. 

•!.  when  kn  mnding  him,  or  bocauae  ol 

limb  back  to  i  hat  all  it  ade  of  t  he  thin 

ad,  i  rom    w  Inch    v,  e  lover's 

them,   pare  surveyors.     She  climbed 

I  d<    pairing  and  using  the 

fall  back  \om  er. 

I)  a  n  it bdre*  Sir  Willoughby'a  attention  from 

tli.-  impercepl  il 

••  .'<  the  birch!  the  birch!     Boys  of  spirit  com- 

monly   turn    ii  I  men,  and   the  Bolider  the   men  the 

more  surely  do  they  vote  for   Busby.     For  me,   I    pray   he 
i  immortal  in  Great   Britain.     Sea-air  nor  mountain- 

air  is  half  -  'i _'.     I   venture  to  Bay  that  the  power  to 

-  Lb   better  worth   having  than  the  power  to 
administ  se  him  and  birch  him  if  Crossjay  runs 

from  hie 

"1  sirf'hishosl   bowod  to  him  affably, 

.  on  bel  i  be  lad  ii 

tively    bo,   sir,    that   I   "will    undertake  without 

of  thuir  antecedents,  to  lay  my  linger  on  the  nun 

in  public  life  who  have  not  had  early  Busby.     They  are  ill— 

i  Theii  a  is  not  a  concrete.     They 

won't   take  rough  and  sn th   as  thoy  come.     They  make 

can't  fo  sniff  righl  and  left  for  approbation, 

and  are  excited  t  Bast  wind  docs  not  flatter 

them.     Why,  mi-,  when  they  have  grown  to  be  seniors,  you 
:  men  mixed  Dp  with  the  i  •   of  their  youth; 

nnthreshed.     We   English  beat  the  world 
i  we  take  a  licking  welL     1  hold  it  for  a  surety  of  a 

proper  bw  e<  tm  blood." 

The  sun..  .'•  Willoughbv  softer  as  the 

shal  his   head   increased    in  contradiutoriness.     "And 

with  the  air  of  conceding  a  littlo  after  having 

•1    the    Rev,    I1  and    convicted    him    of    error, 

•'  Ja  i   keep  him   in   order.     On   board  ship 

.Not,  j    Buspect,  among  gentlo- 

"G      1  night  to-  atlemen !"  said  Dr.  Middleton. 

1  ird   .Mi       E     mor   and    Miss   Isabel  interchange 

i 

jhby  would  not  have  Buffered  it!" 


CLAKA  AND  L^TITIA  MEET.  75 

"  Tt  would  entirely  have  altered  him  !" 

She  sighed  and  put  a  tooth  on  her  underlip.  The  gift  of 
humourous  fancy  is  in  women  fenced  round  with  forbidding 
placards ;  they  have  to  choke  it ;  if  they  perceive  a  piece  of 
humour,  for  instance,  the  young  Willoughby  grasped  by  his 
master,  and  his  horrified  relatives  rigid  at  the  sight  of  pre- 
parations for  the  deed  of  sacrilege,  they  have  to  blindfold 
the  mind's  eye.  They  are  society's  hard-drilled  soldiery, 
Prussians  that  must  both  march  and  think  in  step.  It  is 
for  the  advantage  of  the  civilized  world,  if  you  like,  since 
men  have  decreed  it,  or  matrons  have  so  read  the  decree ; 
but  here  and  there  a  younger  woman,  haply  an  uncorrected 
insurgent  of  the  sex  matured  here  and  there,  feels  that  her 
lot  was  cast  with  her  head  in  a  narrower  pit  than  her 
limbs. 

Clara  speculated  as  to  whether  Miss  Dale  might  be  per- 
chance  a  person  of  a  certain  liberty  of  mind.  She  asked  for 
some  little,  only  some  little,  free  play  of  mind  in  a  house 
that  seemed  to  wear,  as  it  were,  a  cap  of  iron.  Sir  Wil- 
loughby not  merely  ruled,  he  throned,  he  inspired:  and 
how  ?  She  had  noticed  an  irascible  sensitiveness  in  him 
alert  against  a  shadow  of  disagreement;  and  as  he  was  kind 
when  perfectly  appeased,  the  sop  was  offered  by  him  for 
submission.  She  noticed  that  even  Mr.  Whitford  forebore 
to  alarm  the  sentiment  of  authority  in  his  cousin.  If  he  did 
not  breathe  Sir  Willoughby,  like  the  ladies  Eleanor  and 
Isabel,  he  would  either  acquiesce  in  a  syllable,  or  be  silent. 
He  never  strongly  dissented.  The  habit  of  the  house,  with 
its  iron  cap,  was  on  him  ;  as  it  was  on  the  servants,  and 
would  be,  Oh,  shudders  of  the  shipwrecked  that  see  their 
end  in  drowning  !  on  the  wife. 

"  When  do  I  meet  Miss  Dale  ?"  she  inquired. 

"  This  very  evening,  at  dinner,"  replied  Sir  Willoughby. 

Then,  thought  she,  there  is  that  to  look  forward  to  ! 

She  indulged  her  morbid  fit,  and  shut  up  her  senses  that 
she  might  live  in  the  anticipation  of  meeting  Miss  Dale ; 
and,  long  before  the  approach  of  the  hour,  her  hope  of 
encountering  any  other  than  another  dull  adherent  of  Sir 
Willoughby  had  fled.  So  she  was  languid  for  two  of  the 
three  minutes  when  she  sat  alone  with  Laatitia  in  the 
drawing-room  before  the  ladies  had  assembled. 

"It  is  Miss  Middleton  ?"  L  ctitia  said,  advancing  to  her. 


Tin:  i  001 

"  M  tells  me;  for  you  bavewon  my  boy  Cross  jay's 

1  and  done  more  to  bring  bim  to  ob  e  in  a  few 

t ban  w <•  li;i\ «•  I"    d  able  to  do  in  mont hs.  ' 
••  1 1  ia  u  ild-flo  «  elcome  to  M  Hara. 

■  ||-  mo  lesl  i  bom.      Ami    I    mention  it 

b  boye   "t    In--  age  usually  thrust  their  gifts  in  our 
they  pluck   them,  and  yon   were  to  be  treated 

••  . .  "I  fairy's  hand." 

i  her  office ;  but   I  pray  von  not  to  love  him  too 
in  return  ;  for  be  ought  t  i  be  away  reading  with  one  of 
t  men  v  through  their  examinations.     He  is, 

!1  think,  a  born  sailor,  and  Ins  place  is  in  the  navy." 
••  But,  Miss  Male.  I    love  bim  so  well  that  1  shall  consult 
his  interests  ami  not  my  own  selfishness.     And,  if  I  have 
influence,  be  will  ad   be  a  week  with  yon  longer.     It  should 
■  ken  of  to-day  ;    I   must  have   been   in   some 
.'ii  :    I    thought   of  it.    I    know.      I  will  not  forget  to  do 
\\  hai  may  be  in  my  power." 
Clara's  heart  sank  at  the  renewed  engagement  and  plight- 
•  It'  involved  in  her  asking  a  favour,  urging  any 
bition.     The  cause  was  good.      Besides,  she  was 
ited  already. 

Willoughby  is  really  fond  of  the  hoy,"  she  said. 

'•  Be    is   fond   of  exciting   fondness   in  the  boy,"   said  Miss 

Dale.     ""  He  has  not  dealt   much  with  children      lam  sure 

jay;  he  could  not  otherwise  be  bo  forbearing; 

woi  derful  what  he  endures  and  Laughs  at." 

5  r   Willoughby  •  d.      The   presence  of   Miss  Dalo 

illuminated  him  as  the  burnii  ::  taper  lights  up  consecrated. 

plat'  Jting  her  for  her  constancy,  esteeming 

a  model  of  taste,  be  was  never  in  her  society  without 

happy  consci  shining  which  calls  forth  tho 

i    the  man;  and  these  it  is  no  exaggeration  to 

i   unbounded,  whin  all  that  comes  from  him  is  taken  for 

I- 

II  •  of   the  evening  <>n  Clara  was  to  render  her  dis- 

:■    later   antagonism.       She   had   unknowingly 

into  the  spirit  of  .Miss  Dale,  Sir  Willoughby  aiding; 

mpathize   with   the    view  of   his   constant 

him  so  cordially  and  smoothly  gay;  as 

■  rally  witty,  the  m  kblc  form  of 


CLARA  AND  L&TITIA  MEET.  77 

mfe.  Mrs.  Mountstuart  Jenkinson  discerned  that  he  had  a 
leg  of  physical  perfection;  Miss  Dale  distinguished  it  in  him 
in  the  vital  essence ;  and  before  either  of  these  ladies  he  was 
not  simply  a  radiant,  he  was  a  productive  creature,  so  true 
it  is  that  praise  is  our  fructifying  sun.  He  had  even  a  touch 
of  the  romantic  air  which  Clara  remembered  as  her  first  im- 
pression of  the  favourite  of  the  county:  and  strange  she  found 
it  to  observe  this  resuscitated  idea  confrontiug  her  expe- 
rience. What  if  she  had  been  captious,  inconsiderate  ?  O 
blissful  revival  of  the  sense  of  peace !  The  happiness  of  pain 
departing  was  all  that  she  looked  for,  and  her  conception  of 
liberty  was  to  learn  to  love  her  chains,  provided  tnat  he 
would  spare  her  the  caress.  In  this  mood  she  sternly  con- 
demned Constantia.  '  We  must  try  to  do  good  ;  we  must  not 
be  thinking  of  ourselves  ;  we  must  make  the  best  of  our  path 
in  life.'  She  revolved  these  infantile  precepts  with  humble 
earnestness  ;  and  not  to  be  tardy  in  her  striving  to  do  good, 
with  a  remote  but  pleasurable  glimpse  of  Mr.  Whitford  hear- 
ing of  it,  she  took  the  opportunity  to  speak  to  Sir  Willoughby 
on  the  subject  of  young  Crossjay,  at  a  moment  when,  alight- 
ing from  horseback,  he  had  shown  himself  to  advantage 
among  a  gallant  cantering  company.  He  showed  to  great 
advantage  on  horseback  among  men,  being  invariably  the 
best  mouni  ed,  and  he  had  a  cavalierly  style,  possibly  culti- 
vated, but  effective.  On  foot  his  raised  head  and  half- 
dropped  eyelids  too  palpably  assumed  superiority.  "  Wil- 
loughby, I  want  to  speak,"  she  said,  and  shrank  as  she 
spoke,  lest  he  should  immediately  grant  everything  in  the 
mood  of  courtship,  and  invade  her  respite ;  "  I  want  to  speak 
of  that  dear  boy  Crossjay.  Tou  are  fond  of  him.  He  is 
rather  an  idle  boy  here,  and  wasting  time  .  .  .  ." 

"  Now  you  are  here,  and  when  you  are  here  for  good,  my 
love,  for  good  .  .  .  ."  he  fluted  away  in  loverliness,  forgetful 
of  Crossjay,  whom  he  presently  took  up.  "  The  boy  recog- 
nizes his  most  sovereign  lady,  and  will  do  your  bidding, 
though  you  should  order  him  to  learn  his  lessons  !  Who 
would  not  obey  ?  Tour  beauty  alone  commands.  But  what 
is  there  beyond  ? — a  grace,  a  hue  divine,  that  sets  you  not  so 
much  above  as  apart,  severed  from  the  world." 

Clara  produced  an  active  smile  in  duty,  and  pursued  :  "  If 
Crossjay  were  sent  at  once  to  some  house  where  men  prepare 
boys  to  pass  for  the  navy,  he  would  have  his  chance,  and 


•Mil'    I 

i,     Uis  father  is  a  brave 
■   Im -:i\  cry,  and  be  hag  a  pa  sion    for  a 
.lv  he  mnsl  be  able  to  pass  his  examination, 
■    :  mncfa  i  ime." 

:i  Blighl  langb  in  Bad  amusement. 

\ on  adore  t  he  world  ;    and  I  sup;,  i  e  yon 

learn  thai  there  is  no!  a  question   in  tins  wrangling 

i   which   we  have  no!   disputes  and  contests  ad 

I   have  my  notions  concerning  Crossjay,  Vernon 

I    Bhould    wish    to   make   a   gentleman   of   him. 

in  nks  him  for  a  sailor.     But    Vernon  is  the  lad's 

t.  I  am  not.     Vernon   took  him   from  his  father  to 

instruct  him,  and  he  lias  ;t  right  to  say  what  shall  be  done 

with  him.     1  do  not  interfere.     Only  J  can't  prevent  the  lad 

liking  me.     <>M  Vernori  seems  to  feel  it.     I  assure  you 

I    bold   entirely  aloof.     If  I  am  asked,  in  spite  of  my  dis- 

d  of  Vernon's  plans  for  the  boy,  to  subscribe  to  his 

departure,  I  can  bu1  Bhrug,  because,  as  yon  see,  I  have  never 

opp       i.     Old    Vernon  pays  for  him,  he  is  the  master,  he 

1  ay  is  blown  from  the  mast-head  in  a 

b  aine  does  not  full  on  me.      These,  my  dear,  are 

■ 

•■  I  would  not  venture  to  intrude  on  them,"  said  Clara,  "if 
I  had  nol  Buspected  t  nut  money  .  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  cried   Willoughby;    "and  it  is  a  part.     And  lot 

old   Vernon  surrender  the   boy  to   me,  I  will   immediately 

him  of  the  burden  on  his  purse.     Can  I  do  that,  my 

•  :■  the  furtherance  of   a    scheme  I  condemn?      The 

latterly  1  have   invited   Captain   Patterne  to 

jusi    previous  to  his  departure  for  the  African 

1  rnment  despatches  Marines  when  there  is 

•her  way  of  killing  them,  1  sent  him  a  special  invitation. 

Be   thanked   me   and    curtly   declined.     The   man,   I   may 

aim  .    is  my   pensioner.      Well,   he   calls   himself   a 

undoubtedly   a   man  of   courage,   he   has 

■   blood,  and    the   name.      I  think  1    am   to   be 

ing  to  make  a  better  gentleman  of  the  son 

1  help, Id  in  the   father:    and   Beeing  that  life  from   an 

I  ship  has  anything  but  made  a  gentleman 

ler,    I    hold   that  I   am  right  in  shaping  another 

for  the  son." 

'Na  s  .  •  •  ."  Clara  suggested. 


CLARA  AND  LMTITIA  MEET.  79 

"  Some,"  said  Willoughby.  "  But  they  must  be  men  of 
birth,  coming  out  of  homes  of  good  breeding.  Strip  them  of 
the  halo  of  the  title  of  naval  officers,  and  I  fear  you  would 
not  often  say  gentlemen  when  they  step  into  a  drawing- 
room.  I  went  so  far  as  to  fancy  I  had  some  claim  to  make 
young  Crossjay  something  diff erent.  It  can  be  done :  the 
Patterne  comes  out  in  his  behaviour  to  you,  my  love :  it  can 
be  done.  But  if  I  take  him,  I  claim  undisputed  sway  over 
him.  I  cannot  make  a  gentleman  of  the  fellow  if  I  am  to 
compete  with  this  person  and  that.  In  fine,  he  must  look  up 
to  me,  he  must  have  one  model." 

"  Would  you,  then,  provide  for  him  subsequently  ?" 

"According  to  his  behaviour." 

"  Would  not  that  be  precarious  for  him  ?" 

"  More  so  than  the  profession  you  appear  inclined  to 
choose  for  him  ?" 

"  But  there  he  would  be  under  clear  regulations." 

"  With  me  he  would  have  to  respond  to  affection." 

"  Would  you  secure  to  him  a  settled  income  ?  For  an 
idle  gentleman  is  bad  enough ;  a  penniless  gentleman !   .  .  ." 

"  He  has  only  to  please  me,  my  dear,  and  he  will  be 
launched  and  protected." 

"  But  if  he  does  not  succeed  in  pleasing  you !" 

"  Is  it  so  difficult  ?" 

"Oh!"  Clara  fretted. 

"  You  see,  my  fove,  I  answer  you,"  said  Sir  Willoughby. 

He  resumed  :  "  But  let  old  Yernon  have  his  trial  with  tl)3 
lad.  He  has  his  own  ideas.  Let  him  carry  them  out.  I 
shall  watch  the  experiment." 

Clara  was  for  abandoning  her  task  in  sheer  faintness. 

"Is  not  the  question  one  of  money?"  she  said  shyly, 
knowing  Mr.  Whitford  to  be  poor. 

"  Old  Yernon  chooses  to  spend  his  money  that  way," 
replied  Sir  Willoughby.  "If  it  saves  him  from  breaking 
his  shins  and  risking  his  neck  on  his  Alps,  we  may  consider 
it  well  employed." 

"  Yes,"  Clara's  voice  occupied  a  pause. 

She  seized  her  languor  as  it  were  a  curling  snake  and  cast 
it  off.      "  But  I  understand  that   Mr.  Whitford  wants  your 

assistance.      Is  he  not not  rich  ?     When  he  leaves   the 

Hall  to  try  his  fortune  in  literature  in  London,  he  may  not 
be  so  well  able  to  support  Crossjay  and  obtain  the  instruo- 


B(J  TH  [ST. 

tioii  ■  try  f<">r  the  boy  :  and  it  would  be  generous  to  help 

him." 

••  Leaves  the  Ball !"  ezclaii 1  Willonghby.     "  I  have  not 

1  i  :i  word  of  it.  Hi'  mail''  a  bad  starl  at  the  beginning, 
and  I  should  have  thought  that  would  have  tamed  him  :  had 
to  throw  over  his   Fellowship;    ahem.     Then  he  received  a 

li  c      '}    some    time   hack,  ami   wanted  to   be  "II    to    push 

bis  lurk  in  Literature:  rank  gambling,  as  1  told  him.  Lon- 
donizing  can  do  him  I.     i   thought  thai  nonsense  of 

was  over  years  ago.  What  is  it  he  lias  from  me?  — 
aboul  a  hundred  ami  titty  a  year:  and  it  mighl  be  doubled 
h«r  the  asking:  and  all  the  books  he  requires:  and  these 
writers  ami  scholi  sooner  think  of  a  book  than  they 

musi  have  it.  And  ilo  not  suppose  me  to  complain.  I  am 
a  man  who  will  no!  have  a  single  shilling  expended,  by  those 
who   serve    immediately  ah  ml    my   person.      I    confess    to 

sting  that   kind   of  dependancy.      Feudalism  is  not  an 
ectionable  thing  if  yon  can  be  sure  of  the   lord.      You 

v,  Clara,  and  you  should  know  me  in  my  weakness  too, 
1  do  not  claim  servitude,  I  stipulate  for  affection.  I  claim 
to  lie  surrounded  by  persons  loving  me.  And  with  one? 
....':  So    thai    we    two   can    shut    out    the    world: 

we  live  what  is  the  dream  of  others.  Nothing  imaginable 
can  he  p.     It  is  a  veritable  heaven  on  earth.     To  be 

the  possessor  of  the  whole  of  you!  Your  thoughts,  hopes, 
all.'1 

Sir  Willonghby  intensified  his  imagination  to  conceive 
more:  he  could  not,  or  could  not  express  it.  and  pursued: 
1  ■  li.it  whal  is  this  talk  of  Vernon's  leaving  me?  He 
cannot  leave.  He  has  barely  a  hundred  a  year  of  his 
own.     S  !       insider    him.      I  do  not    speak   of   the 

■  .it  it  !i i li-  of  the  wish   to   lea  Sou   know,   my  dear,  I 

have  a  deadly  abhorrence  of  partings  and  such  like.     As  far 

■.    I    iurround  myself  with   healthy  people  specially 

guard  myself  from  having  my  feelings  wrung;  and 
hale,  whom  you  like  my  darling  docs  like 
her?"-  the  answer  satisfied  him;  "with  that  one  exception, 
T  am  not  aware  of  a  case  thai  threatens  to  tormenl  me.  And 
here  is  a  man.  under  no  compulsion,  talking  of  leaving  the 
Hall  !  In  the  name  of  goodness,  why  ?  But  why  f  Am  I 
to  imagine  thai  the  sigh!  of  perfeel  felicity  distresses  him  ? 
We  are  told   thai  the  world   is  '  desperately  wicked.'     I  do 


CLARA  AND  ItETITlA  MEET.  81 

not  like  to  think  it  of  my  friends  ;  yet  otherwise  their  con- 
duct is  often  hard  to  account  fur." 

"  If  it  were  true,  you  would  not  punish  Crossjay  ?"  Clara 
feebly  interposed. 

"  I  should  certainly  take  Crossjay  and  make  a  man  of  him 
after  my  own  model,  my  dear.  But  who  spoke  to  you  of 
this  ?" 

"  Mr.  Whitford  himself.  And  let  me  give  you  my  opinion, 
Willoughby,  that  he  will  take  Crossjay  with  him  rather 
than  leave  him,  if  there  is  a  fear  of  the  boy's  missing  his 
chance  of  the  navy." 

"  Marines  appear  to  be  in  the  ascendant,"  said  Sir  Wil- 
loughby, astonished  at  the  locution  and  pleading  in  the 
interests  of  a  son  of  one.  "  Then  Crossjay  he  must  take. 
I  cannot  accept  half  the  boy.  I  am,"  he  laughed,  "the 
legitimate  claimant  in  the  application  for  judgement  before 
the  wise  King.  Besides,  the  boy  has  a  dose  of  my  blood  in 
him  ;  he  has  none  of  Vernon's,  not  one  drop." 

"Ah!" 

"  You  see,  my  love." 

"  Oh  !     I  do  see  ;  yes." 

"  I  put  forth  no  pretensions  to  perfection,"  Sir  Willoughby 
continue!.  "  I  can  bear  a  considerable  amount  of  provoca- 
tion ;  still  I  can  be  offended,  and  I  am  unforgiving  when  I 
have  been  offended.  Speak  to  Vernon,  if  a  natural  occasion 
should  spring  up.  I  shall,  of  course,  have  to  speak  to  him. 
You  may,  Clara,  have  observed  a  man  who  passed  me  on 
the  road  as  we  were  cantering  home,  without  a  hint  of  a 
touch  to  his  hat.  That  man  is  a  tenant  of  mine,  farming 
six  hundred  acres,  Hoppner  by  name:  a  man  bound  to 
remember  that  I  have,  independently  of  my  position,  obliged 
him  frequently.  His  lease  of  my  ground  has  five  years  to 
run.  I  must  say  I  detest  the  churlishness  of  our  country 
population,  and  where  it  comes  across  me  I  chastise  it. 
Vernon  is  a  different  matter:  he  will  only  require  to  be 
spoken  to.  One  would  fancy  the  old  fellow  laboured  now 
and  then  under  a  magnetic  attraction  to  beggary.  My 
love,"  he  bent  to  her  and  checked  their  pacing  up  and  down, 
"you  are  tired  ?" 

"  I  am  very  tired  to-day,"  said  Clara. 

His  arm  was  offered.     She  laid  two  fingers  on  it,  and  they 
dropped  when  he  attempted  to  press  them  to  his  rib. 

o 


-•_'  THE   EGOIST. 

He  did  doI   insist.     To  walk  beside  her  was  to  share  in 
the  stat<  iinesa  of  her  walking. 

He  placed  himself  at  a  corner  of   the  doorway  for  her  to 

:      -  him  into  the  house,  and  doated  on  her  cheek,  her  ear, 

and  the  Boftly  dusky  nape  "I    her  neck,  where  this  way  and 

■    the  little  lighter-coloured  irreclaimable  curls  running 

truant  from  the  comb  and  the  knot— curls,  half-curls,  root- 

s,  vine-ringlets,  wedding-rings,  fledgeling  leathers,  tufts 

:.  blown  wisps  -waved  or  fell,  waved  over  or  up  or 

involutedly,  or  strayed,  loose  and  downward,  in  the  form  "I 

small  silken  paws,  h  trdly  any  of  them  much  thicker  than  a 

era;  inninger  than  long  round  locks  of  gold  to 

tri<  heart. 

Lstitia  had  nothing  to  show  resembling  such  beauty. 


CHAPTEB  X. 

IX  WHICH  SIR  WILLOUGHBY  CHANCES  TO  SUPPLY  THE  TITLE  FOB 

HIMSELF. 

v  Vernon  was  useful  to  his  cousin;  he  was  the  accom- 
plished  tary    of    a   man    who    governed    his    estates 

shrewdly   and    diligently,  but  had  been  once  or  twice  un- 
lucky in  his  judgements  pronounced  from   the  magisterial 
li  as  a  Justice  of  the  Peace,  on  which  occasions  a  half- 
am   (if    trenchant    English    supported    by    an    apposite 
I  quotation  impressed  Sir  Willoughby  with  the  value 
ich  a  secretary   in  a  controversy,     lie  had  no  fear  of 
y  dragon  of  scorching  breath — the  newspaper  Press 
—  while  Vernon  was  his  right-hand  man;  and  as  he  intended 
■  ter   Parliament,   he  foresaw  the  greater  need  of   him. 
Furthermore,  he    liked  his  cousin   to   date   his  own   contro- 
sial  writings,  on  classical  subjects,  from    Patterne   Hall. 
!•         ■   d  his  house  to  shine  in  a  foreign   field;  proved  the 
of  scholarship  l>y  giving   it  a  flavour  of  a  bookish 
icy    that,    though    uol    so    well   worth    having,    and 
temptible,    is  above  the  material   and 
titular;   one  cannot    quite  say   how.      There,  however,  is   the 
our.     Dainty  sauces  are  the  life,  the  nobility,  of  famoi  i 


TITLE  FOR  SIR  WILLOUGHBY  SUPPLIED.  83 

dishes  ;  taken  alone,  the  former  would  be  nauseating,  tho 
latter  plebeian.  It  is  thus,  or  somewhat  so,  when  you  have 
a  poet,  still  better  a  scholar,  attached  to  your  household. 
Sir  Willoughby  deserved  to  have  him,  for  he  was  above  his 
county  friends  in  his  apprehension  of  the  flavonr  bestowed 
by  the  man;  and  having:  him,  he  had  made  them  conscious 
of  their  deficiency.  His  cook,  M.  Dehors,  pupil  of  the  great 
Godefroy,  was  not  the  only  French  cook  in  the  county ;  but 
his  cousin  and  secretary,  the  rising  scholar,  the  elegant 
essayist,  was  an  unparalleled  decoration;  of  his  kind,  of 
course.  Personally,  we  laugh  at  him  ;  you  had  better  not, 
unless  you  are  fain  to  show  that  the  higher  world  of  polite 
literature  is  unknown  to  you.  Sir  Willoughby  could  create 
an  abject  silence  at  a  county  dinner-table  by  an  allusion  to 
Vernon  "  at  work  at  home  upon  his  Etruscans  or  his 
Dorians ;"  and  he  paused  a  moment  to  let  the  allusion  sink, 
laughed  audibly  to  himself  over  his  eccentric  cousin,  and 
let  him  rest. 

In  addition,  Sir  Willoughby  abhorred  the  loss  of  a  familiar 
face  in  his  domestic  circle.  He  thought  ill  of  servants  who 
could  accept  their  dismissal  without  petitioning  to  stay  with 
him.  A  servant  that  gave  warning  partook  of  a  certain 
fiendishness.  Vernon's  project  of  leaving  the  Hall  offended 
and  alarmed  the  sensitive  gentleman.  "  I  shall  have  to  hand 
Letty  Dale  to  him  at  last!"  he  thought,  yielding  in  li  ter 
generosity  to  the  conditions  imposed  on  him  by  the  un- 
generousness  of  another.  For,  since  his  engagement  to 
Miss  Middleton,  his  electrically  forethoughtful  mind  had 
seen  in  Miss  Dale,  if  she  stayed  in  the  neighbourhood,  and 
remained  unmarried,  the  governess  of  his  infant  children, 
often  consulting  with  him.  But  here  was  a  prospect  dashed 
out.  The  two,  then,  may  marry,  and  live  in  a  cottage  on 
the  borders  of  his  park ;  and  Vernon  can  retain  his  post, 
and  Laetitia  her  devotion.  The  risk  of  her  casting  it  off  had 
to  be  faced.  Marriage  has  been  known  to  have  such  an 
effect  on  the  most  faithful  of  women  that  a  great  passion 
fades  to  naught  in  their  volatile  bosoms  when  they  have 
taken  a  husband.  We  see  in  women  especially  the  triumph- 
of  the  animal  over  the  spiritual.  Nevertheless,  risks  must 
be  run  for  a  purpose  in  view. 

Having  no  taste  for  a  discussion  with  Vernon,  whom  it  was 
his  habit  to  confound  by  breaking  away  from  him  abruptly 


u  2 


M  in 

d  ho  had  delivi  red  hi>  opinion,  he  left  it  to  1  ■  •  * t >  1  the  per* 
themselves  in  yonng  Crussjay  to  imagine 
be  was   i  ing  on  the  question  of  the  lad,  and  to 

imagine  1 1  mid  I  e  wise  to  leave  him  t<>  meditate;  for 

he  could  bepn  irallj  ac  ite  in  reading  an j  of  bis  fellow- 

[f  they  i  rrent  dI   his  feelings.     And, 

meanwhile,  he  instructed  1 1  * « -  ladies  Eleanor  and  Isabel  to 
bring  l  Dale  ->n  a   visit   to  the    Hall,   where  dinner- 

parties were  Boon  to  1"-  given  Mid  ;i  pleasing  talker  would 
be  wanted;  where  also  a  woman  <>t'  intellect,  Bteeped  in  a 
splendid  sentiment,  hitherto  a  miracle  of  female  constancy, 
might  stir  :i  younger  woman  to  mulation.     De6nitely 

tn  resolve  I  Usetitia  apon  Vernon,  was  more  than 

mid  do;  enough  thai  be  held  the  card. 
Regarding  Clara,  his  genius  for  perusing  the  heart  which 
was  not  in  perfect   harmony  with  him  through  the  serii 

lonsive  movements  to  his  own,  informed  him  of  a  some- 
thing in  her  character  thai  might   have  suggested   to  Mrs. 
M      ntstuart  Jenkinson  her  indefensible,  absurd  'rogue  in 
•  •lain.'     Idea  there  was  none  in  that  phrase;  yet,  if  you 
looked  "ii  Clara  as  a  delicately  inimitable  porcelain  beauty, 
the   suspicion    of   a   delicately    inimitable   ripple  over   her 
features  touched  a  thought   of  innocent    roguery,  wildwood 
:  the    likeness   to   the   costly  and    lovely  substance 
appeared   to   admit    a   fitness    in   the  <lnl>ious  epithet.     He 
ested  bul  was  haunted  by  t  he  phrase. 
81  iiil\  had  at   times   the  l<><>k  of  the  nymph  that 

long  -ii  the  faun,  and  has  unwittingly  copied 
his  lurking  lip  ai  'I  long  sliding  eve.  Her  play  with  young 
1  ibled  a  return  of  the  lady  to  the  cat;  she  flung 

it   her  real  \  itality  had  been  in  suspi 
till  she  saw  the  boy.  SirWilloughby  by  no  means  disapproved 
tl  liveliness  that  promised  him  health  in  bis  mate; 
in  their  conversations  that  she  did  not 
sufficiently  think  of  making  herself  a  nest  for  him.     Steely 
•d  to  him  when  he,  figuratively,  bared  his 
1       'ii  to  b(  ■  and  fairest.     She  reasoned : 

•in  other  words,  armed  her  ignorance.     £  he  reasoned  against 
him  publicly,  and  Inn  turn  to  support   her.     Influence 

I   for  !•"'••  !   her  influence  over  Vernon 

■  Ii'iilt  him  to  dance  <>ne  evening 
"'  '-a  ■;•  Culmer's,  after  his  melancholy  exhibitions  of  him- 
self in  t)i«  art  :  and  n  •  only  did  lersuade  him  to  stand 


TITLE  FOR  SIE  WILLOUGHBY  SUPPLIED.  85 

Tip  fronting  her,  she  manoeuvred  him  through  the  dance  like 
a  clever  boy  cajoling  a  top  to  come  to  him  without  reeling, 
both  to  Vernon's  contentment  and  to  Sir  Willoughby's ;  for 
he  was  the  last  man  to  object  to  a  manifestation  of  power 
in  his  bride.  Considering  her  influence  with  Vernon,  he 
renewed  the  discourse  upon  young  Crossjay  ;  and,  as  he  was 
addicted  to  system,  he  took  her  into  his  confidence,  that  she 
might  be  taught  to  look  to  him  and  act  for  him. 

"  Old  Vernon  has  not  spoken  to  you  again  of  that  lad  ?" 
he  said. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Whitford  has  asked  me." 

"  He  does  not  ask  me,  my  dear  !" 

"  He  may  fancy  me  of  greater  aid  than  I  am." 

"  You  see,  my  love,  if  he  puts  Crossjay  on  me,  he  will  be 
off.  He  has  this  craze  for  '  enlisting  '  his  pen  in  London,  as 
he  calls  it ;  and  I  am  accustomed  to  him  ;  I  don't  1  ke  to 
think  of  him  as  a  hack  scribe,  writing  nonsense  from  dicta- 
tion to  earn  a  pitiful  subsistence  ;  I  w-ant  him  here ;  and, 
supposing  he  goes,  he  offends  me ;  he  loses  a  friend  ;  and  it 
will  not  be  the  first  time  that  a  friend  has  tried  me  too  far ; 
but,  if  he  offends  me,  he  is  extinct." 

"  Is  what  ?"  cried  Clara,  with  a  look  of  fright, 

"  He  becomes  to  me  at  once  as  if  he  had  never  been.  He 
is  extinct." 

"  In  spite  of  your  affection  ?" 

"  On  account  of  it,  I  might  sav.  Our  nature  is  mysterious, 
and  mine  as  much  so  as  any.  Whatever  my  regrets,  he  goes 
out.  This  is  not  a  language  I  talk  to  the  world.  I  do  the  man 
no  harm  ;  I  am  not  to  be  named  unchristian.     But !...." 

Sir  Willoughby  mildly  shrugged,  and  indicated  a  spread- 
ing out  of  the  arms. 

"  But  do,  do  talk  to  me  as  you  talk  to  the  world,  Wil- 
loughby ;  give  me  some  relief  !" 

"My  own  Clara,  we  are  one.  You  should  know  m&,  at 
my  worst,  we  will  say,  if  you  like,  as  well  as  at  my 
best." 

"  Should  I  speak  too  ?" 
"  What  could  you  have  to  confess  ?" 

She  hung  silent :  the  wave  of  an  insane  resolution  swelled 
in  her  bosom  and  subsided  before  she  said:  "  Cowardice,  in- 
capacity to  speak." 
"  Women!"  said  he. 


Till     I 

W(   ...i.  i  expect   bo  much  ol  women;  the  heroic  virti 

the  vices.     Thej  have  not   to  unfold  the  scroll  of 

He  resumed,  and  by  his  tone  Bhe  undersl I  thai  she  was 

now  in  the  inner  temple  of  him  :  "  I   tell  you  these  thii 
I  quite  acknowledge  they  do  nol  elevate  me.     They  help  to 
constitute   my   character.     I    tell  you   mosl   humbly  thai    I 
have  in  me  much  x<»<  much  "i'  the  fallen  archangel's  pride." 
•  a  bowed  her  head  over  a  sustained  indrawn  breath. 
••  h  must  I"-  pride,"  he  said,  in  a  reverie  Buperinduced  by 
though tfulne88  over  th.'  revelation,  and  glorying  in  the 
~c  Barnes  demoniacal  wherewith  he  crowned  himself. 
■•  ( 'an  \ mi  nut  correct  it  ?"  Baid  she. 

He  replied,  profoundly  vexed  by  disappointment:  "I  am 
what  I  am.  It  might  be  demonstrated  to  you  mathematically 
thai  it  is  corrected  by  equivalents  or  substitutions  in  my 
character.     It' it  be  a  failing— assuming  that." 

••  It  seems  one  to  me:  bo  cruelly  to  punish  Mr.  Whitford 

ing  !■>  impro\ c  Ins  fortunes." 
••  He  reflects  on  my  Bhare  in  his  fortunes.    Ho  has  had  but 
ipply  to  me,  for  In--  honorarium  to  be  doubled." 
"  lie  wishes  for  independence." 
"  I  adept  d  (■tie,-  of  me!" 
"  Liberty 

\  t  my  expense  !" 
"Oh  ■  Willoughby." 

hut  tin-  n  the  world,  and  T  know  it,  my  love ;  and 
Ltiful  as  your  incredulity  may  be,  you  will  find  it  more 
comforting  to  confide  in  my  knowledge  of  the  selfishness  of 
world.     .M  t,  you  will?     you  do!      For  a  breath 

of  diffen  oce  between  us  i-  intolerable.  Do  you  not  feel  how- 
it  bi  ir  magic  ring?  One  small  Bssure,  and  we  have 
the  world  with  its  muddy  deluge!  -Hut  my  subject  was  old 
I  pay  for  Crossjay,  if  Vernon  consents  to 
I  waive  my  own  Bcheme  for  the  lad,  though  I  think 
i'  the  better  one.  Now,  then,  to  induce  Vernon  to  stay.  He 
1  al t   Btaying  nnder  a  mistress  of  the  house- 

hold ;  ami   therefore,  nol   to  contest    it  —  he  is  a  man  of  no 
imentj  a  Borl  of  lunatic  determination  takes  the  place  of 
it  with  old  Vernon!     lei   him  settle  close  by  me,  in  one  of 
I  well,  ami   to  settle    him  we   must  marry 

him." 


TITLE  FOR  SIR  WILLOUGHBY  SUPPLIED.  87 

"  Who  is  there  ?"  said  Clara,  beating  for  the  lady  in  her 
mind. 

"  Women,"  said  Willoughby,."  are  born  match-makers,  and 
the  most  persuasive  is  a  young  bride.  With  a  man — and  a 
man  like  old  Vernon ! — she  is  irresistible.  It  is  my  wish, 
and  that  arms  you.  It  is  your  wish,  that  subjugates  him. 
If  he  goes,  he  goes  for  good.  If  he  stays,  he  is  my  friend. 
I  deal  simply  with  him,  as  with  every  one.  It  is  the  secret 
nf  authority.  Now  Miss  Dale  will  soon  lose  her  father. 
He  exists  on  a  pension  ;  she  has  the  prospect  of  having  to 
leave  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Hall,  unless  she  is  established 
near  us.  Her  whole  heart  is  in  this  region  ;  it  is  the  poor 
soul's  passion.  Count  on  her  agreeing.  But  she  will  require 
a  little  wooing  :  and  old  Vernon  wooing  !  Picture  the  scene 
to  yourself,  my  love.  His  notion  of  wooing,  I  suspect,  will 
be  to  treat  the  lady  like  a  lexicon,  and  turn  over  the  leaves 
for  the  word,  and  fly  through  the  leaves  for  another  word, 
and  so  get  a  sentence.  Don't  frown  at  the  poor  old  fellow, 
my  Clara;  some  have  the  language  on  their  tongues,  and 
some  have  not.  Some  are  very  dry  sticks ;  manly  men, 
honest  fellows,  but  so  cut  away,  so  polished  away  from  the 
sex,  that  they  are  in  absolute  want  of  outsiders  to  supply  the 
silken  filaments  to  attach  them.  Actually!"  Sir  Willoughby 
laughed  in  Clara's  face  to  relax  the  dreamy  stoniness  of  her 
look.  "  But  I  can  assure  you,  my  dearest,  I  have  seen  it. 
Vernon  does  not  know  how  to  speak — as  we  speak.  He  has, 
or  he  had,  what  is  called  a  sneaking  affection  for  Miss  Dale. 
It  was  the  most  amusing  thing  possible :  his  courtship  ! — 
the  air  of  a  dog  with  an  uneasy  conscience,  trying  to  recon- 
cile himself  with  his  master !  We  were  all  in  fits  of  laughter. 
Of  course  it  came  to  nothing." 

"  Will  Mr.  Whitford,"  said  Clara,  "  offend  you  to  extinc- 
tion if  he  declines  ?" 

Willoughby  breathed  an  affectionate  "  Tush,"  to  her  silli- 
ness. 

"  We  bring  them    together,  as    we    best    can.      You  see, 

Clara,  I  desire,  and  I  will  make  some   sacrifices  to  detain 

him." 

"But  what  do  you  sacrifice? — a   cottage?"    said  Clara, 

combative  at  all  points. 

"  An  ideal,    perhaps.      I  lay   no   stress   on   sacrifice.      I 

strongly  object  to  separations.     And  therefore,  you  will  say, 


•II,  i. 

- 

I   n]  onnd   for  anions  r      Pal  your  influence  to 

I  service,  my  love.     I   believe  3 sould  persuade  him  to 

-  the  Highland  fling  on  the  drawing-room  tabic." 
••  I  oof  hing  i"  saj  to  bim  oi  I  Irossjay  't" 

"  \\  I  ,-,  in  re 

"  I  •  [a  urgent." 

t  me.     I  bave  my  ideas      I  am  not   idle.     That  boy 

r  for  :i  capital  horseman.     Eventualities  might  .  .  .  ." 

'.'.   Iloughby  murmnred   t.»  himself,  and  addri  ssing  his 

bridi        Th<  cavalry?     It   we  put   him  into  the  cavalry,  we 

otleman  of  him — not   be  ashamed  of  him. 

certain  eventualities,  the  Guards.     Think  it  over, 

niv  love.     De  <  .  who  will,  I   assume,  act   best   man  for 

in.-.  old  Vernon  to  pull  at   the  collar,  is  a   Lieu- 

I  in  the  Guards,  a  thorough  gentleman — of  the 

brainli  •    it"  you  like,  but  au  elegant  fellow;  an  Irish- 

will  see  him,  and   I  Bhould  like  to  set  a  naval 

beside  him  in  a  drawing-room,  for  you  to  com; 

them  and  consider  the  model  you  wmild  choose  for  a  boy  you 

jted  in.     II  a  grace  and  gallantry  incarnate ; 

i lily:   I    have  always    been   too  friendly  with 

him  mine  closely.     He  mink'  himself  one  of  my  dogs, 

thongh    my  elder,  and   seemed   to   like  to   be  at  my  heels. 

1  few  mei  es   I   can  call  admirably  handsome ; 

— with   nothing  behind   it,  perhaps.       Ls   Vernon  says,  'a 

nothing  picked  by  the  vultures  and  bleached  by  the  desert.' 

a  bad  talker,  if  vim  tisfied   with  keeping  up  the 

lie  u  ill  an  i.     (»1<1   Horace  does  not  know  how 

amusing  he  is  '." 

Hi  Mr.  Whitford  say  that  of  Colonel  De  Crave?" 

E   whom  he  said  it.     So  you  have 

oldVernoi  ef    *, te  him  one  of  his  epigrams, 

in  motion   head   and   heels!     It  is  an  infallible 
-    him.     If   I    want  to  have  him  in  pood 
only  to  remark,  'as  you  said.'     I  straighten 
■ 

'■     -;i  d  Clara,  "have  noticed   chiefly  his  anxiety  con- 

:   for  u  hich  I  admire  him." 

ditable,  if  not  particularly  far-sighted  and  sagacious. 

I,  then,  my  dear,  attack  him'  at  once:  lead  him  to  the 

•ir  fair  neighbour.     She  is  to  be  our  guest  for  a 

1  affair  might  be  concluded  far 


TITLE  FOR  SIR  WILLODGHBY  SUPPLIED.  89 

enough  to  fix  him  before  she  leaves.  She  is  at  present 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  a  cousin  to  attend  on  her  father.  A 
little  gentle  pushing  will  precipitate  old  Vernon  on  his 
knees  as  far  as  he  ever  can  unbend  them  ;  but  when  a  lady 
is  made  ready  to  expect  a  declaration,  you  know,  why,  she 
does  not — does  she  ? — demand  the  entire  formula  ? — though 
some  beautiful  fortresses  .  .  .  ." 

He  enfolded  her.  Clara  was  growing  hardened  to  it.  To 
this  she  was  fated ;  and  not  seeing  any  way  of  escape,  she 
invoked  a  friendly  frost  to  strike  her  blood,  and  passed 
through  the  minute  unfeelingly.  Having  passed  it,  she 
reproached  herself  for  making  so  much  of  it,  thinking  it  a 
lesser  endurance  than  to  listen  to  him.  What  could  she  do  ? 
— she  was  caged ;  by  her  word  of  honour,  as  she  at  one 
time  thought ;  by  her  cowardice,  at  another ;  and  dimly 
sensible  that  the  latter  was  a  stronger  lock  than  the  former, 
she  mused  on  the  abstract  question  whether  a  woman's 
cowardice  can  be  so  absolute  as  to  cast  her  into  the  jaws  of 
her  aversion.  Is  it  to  be  conceived  ?  Is  there  not  a  moment 
when  it  stands  at  bay  ?  But  haggard- visaged  Honour  then 
starts  up  claiming  to  be  dealt  with  in  turn ;  for  having 
courage  restored  to  her,  she  must  have  the  courage  to  break 
with  honour,  she  must  dare  to  be  faithless,  and  not  merely 
say,  I  will  be  brave,  but  be  brave  enough  to  be  dishonour- 
able. The  cage  of  a  plighted  woman  hungering  for  her  dis- 
engagement has  two  keepers,  a  noble  and  a  vile ;  where  on 
earth  is  creature  so  dreadfully  enclosed  ?  It  lies  with  her 
to  overcome  what  degrades  her,  that  she  may  win  to  liberty 
by  overcoming  what  exalts. 

Contemplating  her  situation,  this  idea  (or  vapour  of  youth 
taking  the  godlike  semblance  of  an  idea)  sprang,  born  of  her 
present  sickness,  in  Clara's  mind ;  that  it  must  be  an  ill- 
constructed  tumbling  world  where  the  hour  of  ignorance  is 
made  the  creator  of  our  destiny  by  being  forced  to  the 
decisive  elections  upon  which  life's  main  issues  hang.  Her 
teacher  had  brought  her  to  contemplate  his  view  of  the 
world. 

She  thought  likewise :  how  must  a  man  despise  women, 
who  can  expose  himself  as  he  does  to  me  ! 

Miss  Middleton  owed  it  to  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne  thai 
she  ceased  to  think  like  a  girl.  When  had  the  great  change 
begun  ?     Glancing  back,  she  could  imagine  that  it  was  neai 


00  in 

the  period  we  call,  in  love,  the  firsi     almosi   from  the  first. 

And  Bhe  was  le  I  to  imagine  il  throngh  !i:i\  ing  become  barred 

ning  her  own   emotions  of  thai    Beason.     They 

•    '  •  even  under  the  forms  of  shadows 

in  fancy.     Without    impnting  blame  to   him,  for   she  was 

.    jo  far,  she  deemed   hi  r  elf  a   person  eni  rapped. 

mehow  she  had   committed  herself  to  a  life- 

•  imprisonment ;  and,  oh  terror !  noi  in  a  quiel  dungeon; 

the  barren  wa]  d  round  her,  talked,  called  forardour, 

!  admiration.     She  was  unable  to  Bay  why  Bhe  could 

:  e  it;  whj    Bhe  retreated  more  and    more  inwardly; 

why   Bhe  ii  '"   kill    her  teuderest  feelings. 

Bhe  was  in  revolt,  unt  il  a  whisper  of  1  he  day  of  bells  reduced 

her  to  blank   submission;  on!   of  which   a   breath  of  pone 

drew  her  to  revolt  again  in  gradual  rapid  j,  and  once 

hut   singular  day  of   merry  black' 

felled   her  to  earth.     Jt    was   alive,   ii    advanced,   it    had  a 

mouth,  it  had  a  Bong.     She  received   letters  of  bridesmaids 

writing  of  it,  and  felt   them  as  waves  that    hurl  a  log  of 

to  Bhore.     Following  which  afflicting  sense  of  anta- 

-iii  to  the  whole  circle  sweeping  on  with  her,  she  con- 

Bidered  the  possibility  oi    her  being  in  a  commencement  of 

madi  Otherwise  mighi  Bhe  noi   be  accused  of  a  capri- 

oiousni  ss  quite  a--  deplorable  to  consider  p     She  had  written 

E  those  young  ladies  noi  very  long  since,  of  this 

leman — how  F — in  \\  hat  tone  ?     And  was  it  her  madness 

then? — her  recovery  mm  f      Ii  Beemed  to  her  that  to  have 

wril  him    enthusiastically    resembled    madness   more 

than  to  shudder  away  from  tie'  union;  but  standing  alone, 

ill    she    has    consented    to    set    in    motion,    is    too 

to  a  girl   lor  perfeci    justification  to  be  found   in 

)  -it. 

Willoughby  was  destined  himself  to  supply  her  with 

that  key  of  special  insight  which  revealed  and  stamped  him 

in  a  tit  t.ly  her   spirit  of   revolt,  consecrate  it  almost. 

The  popular  physician  of  the  county  and  famous  anecdotal 

wit,  Dr.  Corney,  had  been  a  guesi   at  dinner  overnight,  and 

the  nexi   day  there  u;is  talk    of    him,  and    of    the   resources  of 

i       ari  displayed  by  Armand  Dehors  on  his  hearing  that  he 

i   minister  to  the   tastes  of  a  gathering  of    hommes 

tit.     Sir  Willoughby  glanced  at   Dehors  with  his  cus- 

enl  irony  in  speaking  of  the  persons,  great  in 


TITLE  FOR  SIB  WILLOUGHBY  SUPPLIED.  91 

their  way,  who  served  him.  "  Why  he  cannot  give  ns  daily 
so  good  a  dinner,  one  must,  I  suppose  go  to  French  nature  to 
learn.  The  French  are  in  the  habit  of  making  up  for  all 
their  deficiencies  with  enthusiasm.  They  have  no  reverence; 
if  I  had  said  to  him,  '  I  want  something  particularly  excel- 
lent, Dehors,'  I  should  have  had  a  commonplace  dinner.  But 
they  have  enthusiasm  on  draught,  and  that  is  what  we  must 
pull  at.  Know  one  Frenchman  and  you  know  France.  1 
have  had  Dehors  under  my  eye  two  years,  and  I  can  mount 
his  enthusiasm  at  a  word.  He  took  kommes  d 'esprit  to 
denote  men  of  letters.  Frenchmen  have  destroyed  their 
nobility,  so,  for  the  sake  of  excitement,  they  put  up  the 
literary  man— not  to  worship  him  ;  that  they  can't  do  ;  it's 
to  put  themselves  in  a  state  of  effervescence.  They  will  not 
have  real  greatness  above  them,  so  they  have  sham.  That 
they  may  justly  call  it  equality,  perhaps !  Ay,  for  all  your 
shake  of  the  head,  my  good  Vernon  !  You  see,  human  nature 
comes  round  again,  try  as  we  may  to  upset  it,  and  the  French 
only  differ  from  us  in  wading  through  blood  to  discover  that 
they  are  at  their  old  trick  once  more :  '  I  am  your  equal,  sir, 
your  born  equal.  Oh !  you  are  a  man  of  letters  ?  Allow  me 
to  be  in  a  bubble  about  you.'  Yes,  Vernon,  and  I  believe  the 
fellow  looks  up  to  you  as  the  head  of  the  establishment.  I 
am  not  jealous.  Provided  he  attends  to  his  functions  ! 
There's  a  French  philosopher  who's  for  naming  the  days  of 
the  year  after  the  birthdays  of  French  men  of  letters,  Vol- 
taire-day, Rousseau-day,  Racine-day,  so  on.  Perhaps  Vernon 
will  inform  us  who  takes  April  1st." 

"  A  few  trifling  errors  are  of  no  consequence  wThen  you  are 
in  the  vein  of  satire,"  said  Vernon.  "  Be  satisfied  with 
knowing  a  nation  in  the  person  of  a  cook." 

"  They  may  be  reading  us  English  off  in  a  jockey!"  said 
Dr.  Middleton.  "I  believe  that  jockeys  are  the  exchange 
Ave  make  for  cooks  ;  and  our  neighbours  do  not  get  the  best 
of  the  bargain." 

"  ]STo,  but,  my  dear  good  Vernon,  it's  nonsensical,"  said 
Sir  Willoug'hby ;  "why  be  bawling  every  day  the  name  of 
men  of  letters  ?" 

"  Philosophers." 

"  Well,  philosophers." 

"  Of  all  countries  and  times.  And  they  are  the  bene- 
factors of  humanity." 


[I-J  IP' 

"Bene  ....  f     Sir  Willoughby'a  derisive  tango  bro'o 
:  ■•  •;  [i  all  that,  irreconcilable 

it?" 
11  like,  give  alternative 
iternal  ii  .  devoted  to  onr 

I  merih  deeds  upon  snch  a 

b  rebel  C  h ting  in   bis   banter,   was  beard; 

"  I  irnish 

"  \  I  help  ' 

u  P  I. 

" 

"I  .1  Dr.  Middleton,  and  bastily  in 

ip  tli''  conversation  be  bad  unintentionally 
i  i-k  mi  new-fangled  notii 

le  i"  \  .  which  created  the  blissfnl  sus- 

lara,  thai  her  father  was  ind:sposed  to  second  Sir 
W  illonghh  sharing  i  hem. 

S  •■   Willi  had    led    the   conversation.      Displeased 

the  lead  Bhonld  !><•  withdrawn  from  him,  he  turned  to 

«  ■  •  of  the  after-dinner  anecdotes  of  Dr. 

I  I  another,  with  a  vasi  deal  of  heman  nature  in  it, 

man,  whose  wife  chanced 

bob  ly  ill.  and  he  wenl  to  the  physicians  assembled 

in  consultation  ontsidi  sk-room,  imploring  them  by  all 

i   in  tears,  to  Bave  the  poor  patient  for  him, 

rwthing  to  me,  thing,  and  it' 

ompelli  tn  the  risks  of  marrying  again;  I 

■■  ■■   stomed  me  so  to  the 
liti  Ii  in  truth  I  can't,  I  can't  lose 

I  the  lo\  ing  husband  of  an  .- 

have  the   i  Ided 

Willonghb  That    is   tl  t    Egoist.     You 

The  man  was  utterly  un- 
i  the  gro  Ifishnes 

my  dear!"     He  bowed 

■  blindly  Eat  aoua  did  he  app<  ar  to  her,  that 

ild  hardly  believe  him  guilty  of  uttering  the  words 

her  eyes  on  him  vacantly 
in  the  thoughts  directing 


TITLE  FOR  SIR  WILLOUGHBY  SUPPLIED.  93 

her  gaze.  She  looked  at  Vernon,  she  looked  at  her  father, 
and  at  the  ladies  Eleanor  and  Isabel.  None  of  them  saw  the 
man  in  the  word,  none  noticed  the  word  ;  yet  this  word  was 
her  medical  herb,  her  illuminating  lamp,  the  key  of  him 
(and,  alas,  but  she  thought  it  by  feeling  her  need  of  one), 
the  advocate  pleading  in  apology  for  her.  Egoist !  She 
beheld  him — unfortunate,  self-designated  man  that  he  was  I 
— in  his  good  qualities  as  well  as  bad  under  the  implacable 
lamp,  and  his  good  were  drenched  in  his  first  person  singu- 
lar. His  generosity  roared  of  I  louder  than  the  rest.  Con- 
ceive him  at  the  asre  of  Dr.  Corney's  hero  :  "  Pray,  save  my 
wife  for  me.  I  shall  positively  have  to  get  another  if  I  lose 
her,  and  one  who  may  not  love  me  half  so  well,  or  under- 
stand the  peculiarities  of  my  character  and  appreciate  my 
attitudes."  He  was  in  his  thirty-second  year,  therefore  a 
young  man,  strong  and  healthy,  yet  his  garrulous  return  to 
his  principal  theme,  his  emphasis  on  I  and  me,  lent  him  the 
seeming  of  an  old  man  spotted  with  decaying  youth. 

"  Beware  of  marrying  an  Egoist." 

Would  he  help  her  to  escape  ?  The  idea  of  the  scene 
ensuing  upon  her  petition  for  release,  and  the  being  dragged 
round  the  walls  of  his  egoism,  and  having  her  head  knocked 
against  the  corners,  alarmed  her  with  sensations  of  sickness. 

There  was  the  example  of  Constantia.  But  that  desperate 
young  lady  had  been  assisted  by  a  gallant,  loving  gentleman ; 
she  had  met  a  Captain  Oxford. 

Clara  brooded  on  those  two  until  they  seemed  heroic.  She 
questioned  herself  :  Could  she  .  .  .  .  ?  were  one  to  come  ? 
She  shut  her  eyes  in  languor,  leaning  the  wrong  way  of  her 
wishes,  yet  unable  to  say  No. 

Sir  Willoughby  had  positively  said  beware  !  Marrying 
him  would  be  a  deed  committed  in  spite  of  his  express 
warning.  She  went  so  far  as  to  conceive  him  subsequently 
saying  :  "I  warned  you."  She  conceived  the  state  of  mar- 
riage with  him  as  that  of  a  woman  tied  not  to  a  man  of 
heart,  but  to  an  obelisk  lettered  all  over  with  hieroglyphics, 
and  everlastingly  hearing  him  expound  them,  relishingly 
renewing  his  lectures  on  them. 

Full  surely  this  immovable  stone-man  would  not  release 
her.  This  petrifaction  of  egoism  would  from  amazedly  to 
austerely  refuse  the  petition.  His  pride  would  debar  him 
from  understanding  her  desire  to  be  released.     And  if  she 


Till'  BOO]    '. 

Ived  on  Lt,  without  doing  it  Btraightwaj  in  Constantia's 

manner,  the  miserable  bewildermi  nl  of  her  father,  for  w)      i 

Bach  :i  complication  would  be  ,-i  tragic  dilemma,  had  to  be 

though!  Her  father,   with   all    bis  tenderness  for   his 

child,  would  make  a  stand  on  a  point   of    honour;  though 

,ni  to  yield  to  her,  be  would  be  distressed,  in  a  tempest 

of  worry;  and    Dr.    Middleton   thus  afflicted  threw  up  bis 

arms,  he  Bhunned  books,  Bhunned  speech,  and  resembled  a 

away  on  the  ocean,  with  nothing  between  himself  and 

unity.     As  for  the  world,  it  would  be  barking  al   her 

heels.    She  mighl  call  the  man  she  wrenched  her  hand  from, 

I.  .  the  world  would  rail  her.     She  dwelt  bitterly 

on  her  agreement  with  Sir  Willoughby  regarding  the  world, 

ing  it  id  bia  charge  thai   her  gar  len  ha  i  •  a  place 

of  nettles,  her  horizon  an  onlighte  I  fourth  side  of  a  square*. 

kra    passed    from   person   to    person   visiting  the   Hall. 

universal,  and  a^  Bhe  was  compelled  to  see,  honest 

admiration  of  th<  NTol  a  -  ■  .    had  a  suspicion  of  his 

cloaked  nature.     Her  agony  of  hypocrisy  in  accepting  their 

compliments  as  the  bride  of  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne  was 

-rated  1 .  \  contempl  of  them  for  their  infatuation. 

She  tried   to  cheat   herself  with  the  though!  that  they  were 

nd  thai   she  was  the  foolish  and  wicked  inconstant. 

In  her  anxiety  to  strangle  the  rebelliousness  which  had  b      i 

municated  from  her  mind  to  her  blood,  and  was  present 

with   her  whether  her  mind  was  in  action  or  not,  she  en- 

1  the  ladies  Eleanor  and  [sabel  to  magnify  the  fieti- 

an  of  their  idolatry,  hoping  thai  she  might  enter  into 

them  imaginatively,  thai  she  mighl   to  some  degree  subdue 

jity  of  her  position.     If  she  partly  sue. 

in  Btupefying  her  antagonism,  five  minutes  of  him 

t  be  work. 

He  I    I    her   to   wear    the    Patterne   Pearls   for   a 

dinner-]  if  grand  ladies,  telling  her  that  he  would  com. 

I         i    to  ta  :e    them   to  her.     Clara    begged 

•line  them,  on  the  plea  of  having  no  righl  to  wear 

t.     He  lau  :    her  modish  modesty.     "But  really  it 

bl  almost  b  ation,"  said  he.     "  I  give 

•      Virtual  I  \   ■.  o  ;  are  my  wii'e." 

(t  XT  ' 

No. 
"  Before  hi  av<  □ 
"  No      We  are  no1  man  icd." 


TITLE  FOR  SIR  WILLOUGHBY  SUPPLIED.  95 

"  As  my  betrothed,  will  you  wear  them,  to  please 
me?" 

"  I  would  rather  not.  I  cannot  wear  borrowed  jewels. 
These  I  cannot  wear.  Forgive  me,  1  cannot.  And  Wil- 
loughby,"  she  said,  scorning  herself  for  want  of  fortitude  in 
not  keeping  to  the  simply  blunt  provocative  refusal,  "  does 
one  not  look  like  a  victim  decked  for  the  sacrifice  ? — the 
garlanded  heifer  you  see  on  Greek  vases,  in  that  array  of 
jewelry  ?" 

"My  dear  Clara!"  exclaimed  the  astonished  lover,  "how 
can  you  term  them  borrowed,  when  they  are  the  Pattern e 
jewels,  our  family  heirloom  pearls,  unmatched,  I  venture  to 
affirm,  decidedly  in  my  county  and  many  others,  and  passing 
to  the  use  of  the  mistress  of  the  house  in  the  natural  course 
of  things  ?" 

"  They  are  yours,  they  are  not  mine." 

"  Prospectively  they  are  yours." 

"  It  would  be  to  anticipate  the  fact  to  wear  them." 

"  With  my  consent,  my  approval  ?  at  my  request  P" 

"I  am  not  yet  ....  I  never  may  be  .  .  .  ." 

"  My  wife  ?"  He  laughed  triumphantly,  and  silenced 
her  by  manly  smothering. 

Her  scruple  was  perhaps  an  honourable  one,  he  said. 
Perhaps  the  jewels  were  safer  in  their  iron  box.  He  had 
merely  intended  a  surprise  and  gratification  to  her. 

Courage  was  coming  to  enable  her  to  speak  more  plainly, 
when  his  discontinuing  to  insist  on  her  wearing  the  jewels, 
under  an  appearance  of  deference  to  her  wishes,  disarmed 
her  by  touching  her  sympathies. 

She  said,  however :  "  I  fear  we  do  not  often  agree,  Wil- 
longhby." 

"  When  you  are  a  little  older  !"  was  the  irritating  answer. 

"  It  would  then  be  too  late  to  make  the  discovery." 

"  The  discovery,  I  apprehend,  is  not  imperative,  my  love." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  our  minds  are  opposed." 

"  I  should,"  said  he,  "  have  been  awake  to  it  at  a  single 
indication,  be  sure." 

"But  I  know,"  she  pursued,  "I  have  learnt,  that  the 
ideal  of  conduct  for  women,  is  to  subject  their  minds  to  the 
pait  of  an  accompaniment." 

"  For  women,  my  love  f  my  wife  will  be  in  natural  har» 
mony  with  me." 


mi:  boo] 

\h!"      31  her   lips.      The   yawn   would 

•'  1  eepier  here  t  ban  anyvi  her 

j,  my  Clara,  is  the  finest  air  of  the  kingdom.    It  Las 

••  Bnl  it'  I  am  always  asleep  hei 

We    shall    have    to    make    a     public     exhibition    of    the 

B 

This  dash  df  ln's  livelim  ated  her. 

Slu-  lefl  him,  feeling  the  contempt  of  the  brain  feverishly 

qnickened  and  fine-pointed,  for  the  brain  chewing  the  cud  in 

tin-  happy  pastures  of  onawakenedness.     So  violent  was  the 

:een   her  introspection,  thai   she  spared  few,  ami 

\    rnon  was   not  among  them,     Xoung  Crossjay,  whom  she 

lidered  th<-  least  able  of  all  to  acl   as  an  ally,  was  the 

!  with  a  real  desire  to  please  him;  he 

e  she  a  Ly  envie  I ;  he  was  t  be  younj 

the  freest,  he  had  the  world  before  him,  and  be  did  not  know 

how  horrible  the  world  was,  or  could  be  made  to  look.     She 

loved    the    boy   from    expecting   nothing   of  him.      Others, 

Vernon  Wnitford,  for  instance,  could  help,  and  moved  no 

haul.     Il<-  read  her  case.     A  scrutiny  so  penetrating  under 

iir  of  abstract  t hough tfulness,  though   his  eyes  did  but 

■  in  her  ad  or  two,  signified  that  he  read  her  lino 

b;.  line,  and  to  I  ipting  what  sin-  thought  of  him 

for  probing  her  with  thai  sharp  steel  of   u  I    without  a 

purpose.     She  knew  her  minds   injustice.     It  was  her  case, 

entabli  -the  impatient  panic-stricken  nerves  of 

ire,  which  cried  for  help.     She  exug- 

.•'•■1   her  Bufferings  to  get    Btrength  to   throw   them   off, 

and  lust  it  in  the  recognition  that    they  wen-  exaggerated: 

and  out  of  the  conflict    issued    i  with   a  cry  as 

y  coming  of   ma  For  she  did  not  blush  in 

If;  "If  some  one  Loved  me!"     Before  hearing 

otia,   Bhe    had    mused    upon   liberty    as   a   virgin 

•  a, — men  w<  of  her  thoughts;  even  tin-  figure  of 

i       icuer,  if  one  dawned  in  her  mind,  was  more  angel  than 

Thai   fair  childish    maidenliness   had   i  With 

i  itraining  in  hei  di'  p,  with  tin- savour  of 

■  i.    unable    to  aloud,   she 

1  .  and  all  the  healt h   of  her  nat uro 

t  mtcry  womanly  : — "If  I  were  loved  !" — not  for  the 

of  love,  but  for  free  br<  athing  ;  and  her  utterance  of  it 


THE  WILD  CHEERY-TREE.  9< 

was  to  ensure  life  and  enduringness  to  the  wish,  as  the 
yearning  of  a  mother  on  a  drowning  ship  is  to  get  her  infant 
to  shore.  "  If  some  noble  gentleman  could  see  me  as  I  am 
and  not  disdain  to  aid  me !  Oh  !  to  be  caught  up  out  of 
this  prison  of  thorns  and  brambles.  I  cannot  tear  my  own 
way  out.  I  am  a  coward.  My  cry  for  help  confesses  that. 
A  beckoning  of  a  finger  would  change  me,  I  believe.  I 
could  fly  bleeding  and  through  hootings  to  a  comrade.  Oh  ! 
a  comrade.  I  do  not  want  a  lover.  I  should  find  another 
Egoist,  not  so  bad,  but  enough  to  make  me  take  a  breath 
like  death.  I  could  follow  a  soldier,  like  poor  Sally  or 
Molly.  He  stakes  his  life  for  his  country,  and  a  woman 
may  be  proud  of  the  worst  of  men  who  do  that.  Constantia 
met  a  soldier.  Perhaps  she  prayed  and  her  prayer  was 
altered.  She  did  ill.  But,  oh,  how  I  love  her  for  it  !  His 
name  was  Harry  Oxford.  Papa  would  call  him  her  Perseus. 
She  must  have  felt  that  there  was  no  explaining  what  she 
suffered.  She  had  only  to  act,  to  plunge.  First  she  fixed 
her  mind  on  Harry  Oxford.  To  be  able  to  speak  his  name 
and  see  him  awaiting  her,  must  have  been  relief,  a  reprieve. 
She  did  not  waver,  she  cut  the  links,  she  signed  herself  over. 
O  brave  girl !  what  do  you  think  of  me?  But  I  have  no 
Harry  Whitford,  I  am  alone.  Let  anything  be  said  against 
women  ;  we  must  be  very  bad  to  have  such  bad  things 
written  of  us  :  only,  say  this,  that  to  ask  them  to  sign  them- 
selves over  by  oath  and  ceremony,  because  of  an  ignorant 
promise,  to  the  man  they  have  been  mistaken  in,  is  ...   . 

it  is "  the  sudden  consciousness  that  she  had  put  another 

name  for  Oxford,  struck  her  a  buffet,  drowning  her  in 
crimson. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  DOUBLE-BLOSSOM  WILD  CHERRY-TREE. 

Sir  WillouGHBY  chose  a  moment  when  Clara  was  with 
him  and  he  had  a  good  retreat  through  folding-windows  to 
the  lawn,  in  case  of  cogency  on  the  enemy's  part,  to  attack 
his   cousin  regarding   the   preposterous   plot  to   upset  the 

H 


'I  lil.  I 

■  to   London  :     "  I '  Vernon, 

wlc.it  i^  this  mumb  bo       erj  body  Bave  mi-, 

•-■•.'.  .pot  and  be 
,  of  ':  —London  i-  .  and   \  oti  are  I'm 

rably  better.     Don't,   I    beg  you,  continne  to  annoy 
I         a  run  abroad,  if  yon  are  r<  Take  two  or 

e  months,  and  join  as  as  we  are  travelling  home;  and 
:   think  ttling,   pray.      Follow  my  example,  if  you 

like,     yon  can  ha  of  my  cottages,  or  ;i  place  built  for 

Anything  to  keep  a  man  from  destroying  the  sense  of 
>ility  aboul    one.      In   London,  my  dear  old  follow,  yon 
ir  identity.     Whatareyou  there  ?     I  ask  yon,  what? 
eeling  of  the  bouse  crumbling  when  a  man  is 
ally  for  shifting  and  cannot  fix  himself.     Here  you 
ady  at   your  ease;  up  in   London  you 
nobody;    I   tell  you  honestly,  J  feel  it  myself;  a  week  of 
I.      Inn  literally  drives  me  home  to  discover  the  individual 
I  hit  him.      !!'•  advised.      You  don't  mean  to  go." 
'•  I  bave  the  intention,"  said  Vernon. 
'•  Wh; 

"  I  've  'i   nt  "tied  it  to  you." 
"To  •  ;.  fa  ■■■  :•" 
"Over  your  shoulder,  is  generally  the    only  chance    you 

••  You  have  not  mentioned  it  to  me,  to  my  knowledge.     As 

to  the  reason,  I    might  hear  a  dozen  of  your  reasons,  and  1" 

understand  ohm.      It's  against  your  interests  and 

my   wishes.      Come,  friend,   I  am  not  the  only  one 

mrself  have  said  that  the 
jlish  would  be  very  perfect  Jews  if  they  could  manage  to 
on  the  patriarchal   system.     You  said  it,  yes,  you  said 
but    I    recollect    it  clearly.      Oh!    as   for  your  double- 
1  the  thing,  and  you  jeered  at  the  incj 
jlish  families  to  live  together,  on  account  of  1 
:  and  now  you  are  the   first   to  break  up  our  union! 
I       cidedly  I     be  perfect  Jew,  but  J  do  .  .  .  ." 

r  Willonghby  caught   signs  of  i  bly  smiling  com- 

his  bri  his  cousin.     He  raised  his  I 

■  mlting  his  eyelids,and  resolved  to  laugh  : 
"Well,   I  it,  I  do  of  living  patriarchally." 

He  t  i.      '  'I'h e  Rev.  doctor  one  of  us  !" 

"  M  .  r  .id. 


THE   WILD  CHERRY-TREE.  99 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  Papa's  habits  are  those  of  a  scholar." 

"  That  you  might  not  he  separated  from  him,  my  dear." 

Clara  thanked  Sir  Willoughby  for  the  kindness  of  think- 
ing of  her  father,  mentally  analyzing  the  kindness,  in  which 
at  least  she  found  no  unkindness,  scarcely  egoism,  though 
she  knew  it  to  be  there. 

"  We  might  propose  it,"  said  he. 

"  As  a  compliment  ?  " 

"  If  he  would  condescend  to  accept  it  as  a  compliment. 
These  great  scholars  !  .  .  .  .  And  if  Vernon  goes,  our  in- 
ducement for  Dr.  Middleton  to  stay  ....  But  it  is  too 
absurd  for  discussion.  Oh,  Vernon,  about  Master  Crossjay ; 
I  will  see  to  it." 

He  was  about  to  give  Vernon  his  shoulder  and  step  into 
the  garden,  when  Cltra  said,  "You  will  have  Crossjay 
trained  for  the  navy,  Willoughby  ?  There  is  not  a  day  to 
lose." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  will  see  to  it.  Depend  on  me  for  holding 
the  young  rascal  in  view." 

He  presented  his  hand  to  her  to  lead  her  over  the  step  to 
the  gravel,  surprised  to  behold  how  flushed  she  was. 

She  responded  to  the  invitation  by  putting  her  hand  forth 
from  a  bent  elbow,  with  hesitating  fingers.  "  It  should  not 
be  postponed,  Willoughby." 

Her  attitude  suggested  a  stipulation  before  she  touched 
him. 

"  It's  an  affair  of  money,  as  you  know,  Willoughby,"  said 
Vernon.  "  If  I'm  in  London,  I  can't  well  provide  for  the 
boy  for  some  time  to  come,  or  it's  not  certain  that  I  can." 

"  Why  on  earth  should  you  go  !" 

;'  That's  another  matter.  I  want  you  to  take  my  place 
with  him." 

*'  In  which  case  the  circumstances  are  changed.  I  am 
responsible  for  him,  and  I  have  a  right  to  bring  him  up 
according  to  my  own  prescription." 

''  We  are  likely  to  have  one  idle  lout  the  more." 

"  I  guarantee  to  make  a  gentleman  of  him.'' 

"  We  have  too  many  of  your  gentlemen  already." 

"  You  can't  have  enough,  my  good  Vernon." 

"  They're  the  national  apology  for  indolence.  Training  a 
penniless  boy  to  be  one  of  them  is  nearly  as  bad  as  an  educa. 

h  2 


Tfl 

tion  in  a  thieves'  den  ;  he  will  be  just  as  mui  ar  with 

me  for  t  be  poli 
"  Vernon,  have  you  Been  C  father,  the  now  Cap- 

tai  11  I  i  bink  yon  hi 

••  I  ■  I  man  and  a  \  ery  ga  Hani  officer." 

\ ii < I  in  Bpite  of  bis  qualities  he's  a  cub,  and  an  old  cub. 
He  is  a  captain  now.  but  he  takes  thai  rank  very  late,  yon 
will  own.  There  you  have  what  yon  call  a  good  man,  un- 
doubtedly a  gallant  officer,  neutralized  by  the  fact  that  he 

* 

man.     Holding  intercourse  with  him  is  out  of 

the  question.     No  wonder  Government  declines  to  advance 

him  rapidly.      Young  Crossjay  does  not    bear  your  name. 

He  1  mine,  and  on  thai  point  alone  I  should  have  a  voice 

in   i  'iit   of   bis  career.     And  I   say  emphatically 

thai  a  drawing-room  approval  of  a  young  man  is  the  best 

Bcate  for  his  general  chances  in  life.     1  know  of  a  City 

don   merchant   of  some  sort,  and  1   know  a  firm  of 

.   who  will    have  none  but   University  men  in  their 

offii  ; .  t  hey  have  t  he  preference." 

'•(  has  a  bullet  head, fit  neither  for  the  University 

tin-  drawing-rooi  d   Vernon;    "equal    to  fighting 

i,  and  t  hat 's  all." 
Sir  Willoughby  contented  himself  with  replying,  "The 

mine." 
II  cape  a   rejoinder  caused  him  to  step  into 

garden,  leavii  pa   behind  him.     "My   love!"    - 

in  apology  as  he  turned  to  her.    She  could  not  look  stern, 
but   Bhe  had  a  look  without  a  dimple  to  soften  it,  and  her 

e  had  wagered  in  her  heart   that  the 

dial  be    provoked    upon    Crossjay   would    expose   the 

I  'ui'l    there  were  other  motives,   wrapped  up   and 

int'  d,  unrecognizi  ifficient    to  strike   her   with 

than   the  flush   of  her  Belf-knowledge  of  wickedness 

when  she  detained  him  to  I  iy  before  Vernon. 

At  last  it  had  been  seen  that  Bhe  was  conscious  of  suffering 

in  her  association  with   this    Egoist!     Vernon  stood  for  the 

a  into  her  i  The  world,  then,  would  not 

her,  she  thought  hopefully,  at  the  same  time 

Bhe  thought  most  evilly  of  herself .    But  self-accusations 

p  the  day  of  reckoning ;  Bhe  would  and  must  have  the 

world  with  hi  r,  or  the  belief  that   it  was  coining  to  her,  in 


THE  WILD  CHEKKY-TREE.  101 

the  terrible  struggle  she  foresaw  within  her  horizon  of  self, 
now  her  utter  boundary.  She  needed  it  for  the  inevitable 
conflict.  Little  sacrifices  of  her  honesty  might  be  made. 
Considering  how  weak  she  was,  how  solitary,  how  dismally 
entangled,  daily  disgraced  beyond  the  power  of  any  veiling 
to  conceal  from  her  fiery  sensations,  a  little  hypocrisy  was  a 
poor  girl's  natural  weapon.  She  crushed  her  conscientious 
mind  with  the  assurance  that  it  was  magnifying  trifles  :  not 
entirely  unaware  that  she  was  magnifying  trifles :  not  entirely 
unaware  that  she  was  thereby  preparing  it  for  a  convenient 
blindness  in  the  presence  of  dread  alternatives  ;  but  the  pride 
of  laying  such  stress  on  small  sins  gave  her  purity  a  blush 
of  pleasure  and  overcame  the  inner  warning.  In  truth  she 
dared  not  think  evilly  of  herself  for  long,  sailing  into  battle 
as  she  was.  Nuns  and  anchorites  may;  they  have  leisure. 
She  regretted  the  forfeits  she  had  to  pay  for  self-assistance 
and,  if  it  might  be  won,  the  world's  ;  regretted,  felt  the  peril 
of  the  loss,  and  took  them  up  and  flung  them. 

"  You  see,  old  Vernon  has  no  argument,"  Willoughby  said 
to  her. 

He  drew  her  hand  more  securely  on  his  arm,  to  make  her 
sensible  that  she  leaned  on  a  pillar  of  strength. 

"  Whenever  the  little  brain  is  in  doubt,  perplexed,  un- 
decided which  course  to  adopt,  she  will  come  to  me,  will  she 
not?  I  shall  always  listen,"  he  resumed  soothingly.  "My 
own!  and  I  to  you  when  the  world  vexes  me.  So  we  round 
our  completeness.  You  will  know  me ;  you  will  know  me 
in  good  time.  I  am  not  a  mystery  to  those  to  whom  I  unfold 
myself.  I  do  not  pretend  to  mystery  :  yet,  I  will  confess, 
your  home — your  heart's — Willoughby  is  not  exactly  iden- 
tical with  the  Willoughby  before  the  world.  One  must  be 
armed  against  that  rough  beast." 

Certain  is  the  vengeance  of  the  young  upon  monotony ; 
nothing  more  certain.  They  do  not  scheme  it,  but  sameness 
is  a  poison  to  their  systems  ;  and  vengeance  is  their  heartier 
breathing,  their  stretch  of  the  limbs,  run  in  the  fields;  nature 
avenges  them. 

When  does  Colonel  De  Craye  arrive  ?"  said  Clara. 

"  Horace  ?  In  two  or  three  days.  You  wish  him  to  be  od 
the  spot  to  learn  his  part,  my  love  ?" 

She  had  not  flown  forward  to  the  thought  of  Colonel  De 
Craye's  arrival;  she  knew  not  why  she  had  mentioned  himj 


102  Tin:  EGOJ     • 

hut   now  slip  flew  l»:i<'k,  si ked,  6rs<   into  shadowy  snbter. 

i  I  i  In  n  into  i  be  criminal's  dock. 

••  |  do  li  liini  to  be  bere.     I  do  not  know  that  he  li:i s 

:ti.     I   bave  no  wish.     Willoughby,  did.you  not 
1     bould  come  to  yon  and  yon  would   Listen? — will  yon 
, ':      I  am  so  commonplace  thai  r  shall  not  be  understood 
..hi  take  my  worda  for  the  very  meaning  of 
the  v  [am  unworthy.    I  am  volatile.    I  love  my  liberty. 

1  wanl  to  be  free  .  .  .  ." 
-  Flitch!"  he  called, 
[t  so  inded  necromantic. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  love,"  he  said.   "The  man  yon  see  yonder 
violates  my  express  injunction  thai  he  is  not  to  come  on  my 
inds,  and  here  1  find  him  on  the  borders  of  my  garden!" 
Sir  Wllloughby  waved  his  hand  to  the  abject  figure  of  a 
i     ••  standing  to  intercept  him. 

"  Volatile,  unworthy,  liberty — my  dearesl  !"  he  bent  to  her 
when  t  he  man  had  appeased  him  by  depart  ing,  "  You  are  at 
i  within  the  law,  like   all    good  women;    I  shall  control 

and  direcl  your  volatility  ;  and  j  our  sense  of  worthiness  must 
be  re-established  when  we  are  more  intimate;  it  is  timidity. 
The  sense  of  unworthiness  is  a  guarantee  of- worthiness  en- 
suing. I  i  ■•  ■  i  I  am  in  the  vein  of  a  sermon  !  Whose  the 
]  :  of  that  man  was  annoying.     Flitch  w 

.  and  coachman,  like  bis  lather  before  him, 

e  Hall  thirty  years  ;  his  father  died  in  our  service. 

Flitch    had    n<  grievance   here;  only  one  day  the 

him  with   the   notion  of   bettering    himself,  he 

ts  his  independence,  and  he  presents  himself  to  me  with 

ry  of  a  shop  in  our  county  town. — Flitch!  remember,  if 

o   for  good. — Oh!   he  quite  comprehended. — 

well;  g l-bye,  Flitch; — The  man  was  respectful:  he 

ed  the  fool  he  was  vrery  soon  to  turn  out  to  be.  Since 
then,  within  a  period  of  several  years,  1  have  had  him,  against 
my  •  motions,  ten  times  on  my  grounds.    It's  cur 

Of  course  the  shop  failed,  and   Flitch's  inde- 
in  walking   aboul    with    his   hands   in    his 
empty   i  .  and  looking  at   tin;   Hall   from  some  elevation 

t 

"  I-  he  married  ?     Has  he  children  ?"  said  (Mara. 

•  d  a  wife  i  not  coi  .v  or  wash  linen." 

41  You  could  i  him  employment  ?" 


THE  WILD  CHEERY-TREE.  103 

"  Afier  his  having  dismissed  himself  ?" 

"It  might  be  overlooked." 

"  Here  he  was  happy.  He  decided  to  go  elsewhere,  to  be 
free — of  course,  of  my  yoke.  He  quitted  my  service  against 
my  warning.  Flitch,  we  will  say,  emigrated  with  his  wife 
and  nine  children,  and  the  ship  foundered.  He  returns,  but 
his  place  is  filled  ;  he  is  a  ghost  here,  and  I  object  to  ghosts." 

"  Some  work  might  be  found  for  him." 

"  It  will  be  the  same  with  old  Vernon,  my  dear.  If  he 
goes,  he  goes  for  good.  It  is  the  vital  principle  of  my  autho- 
rity to  insist  on  that.  A  dead  leaf  might  as  reasonably  demand 
to  return  to  the  tree.  Once  off,  off  for  all  eternity  !  I  am 
sorry,  but  such  was  your  decision,  my  friend.  I  have,  you 
see,  Clara,  elements  in  me " 

"Dreadful!" 

"  Exert  your  persuasive  powers  with  Vernon.  You  can  do 
well-nigh  what  you  will  with  the  old  fellow.  We  have  Miss 
iJale  this  evening  for  a  week  or  two.  Lead  him  to  some  Wens 
of  her. — Elements  in  me,  I  was  remarking,  which  will  no 
more  bear  to  be  handled  carelessly  than  gunpow  ler.  At  the 
same  time,  there  is  no  reason  why  they  should  not  be  respected, 
managed  with  some  degree  of  regard  for  me  and  attention  to 
consequences.     Those  who  have  not  done  so  have  repented." 

"You  do  not  speak  to  others  of  the  elements  in  you,"  said 
Clara. 

"  I  certainly  do  not :  I  have  but  one  bride,"  was  his  hand- 
some reply. 

"  Is  it  fair  to  me  that  you  should  show  me  the  worst  of 
you  ?" 

"  All  myself,  my  own  ?" 

His  ingratiating  droop  and  familiar  smile  rendered  'All 
myself  '  so  affectionately  meaningful  in  its  happy  reliance 
upon  her  excess  of  love,  that  at  last  she  understood  she  was 
expected  to  worship  him  and  uphold  him  for  whatsoever  he 
might  be,  without  any  estimation  of  qualities:  as  indeed  love 
does,  or  young  love  does  :  as  she  perhaps  did  once,  before  he 
chilled  her  senses.  That  was  before  her  '  little  brain  '  had 
become  active  and  had  turned  her  senses  to  revolt. 

It  was  on  the  full  river  of  love  that  Sir  Willoughby  sup- 
posed the  whole  floating'  bulk  of  his  personality  to  be  securely 
sustained :  and  therefore  it  was  that,  believing  himself  swim- 
ming at  his  ease,  he  discoursed  of  himself. 


I'    I  T)' 

Sh  i i •_- 1 1 1   away  from   thai   idea  with  her  mental 

i:  "  Why  does  be  not   paint   himself  in  brighter 
tnd  the  question:    "Has    he   no   ideal   of 
chival 
•    the   anfortonate   gentleman  imagined  liimself  to  be 
i.  \i-vy  bosom.     He  fancied   thai   everything 

ited   maidenly   curiosity,    womanly 
-  to  know  more  of  him,  wjhich  he  was  ever 
iv  by  repeating  the  same  things.     His  notion 
omen  was  the  primitive  black  and  white :  there  are  go  d 
bad  women;  and  he  possessed  a  good  one.     His  I       i 
himself  fortified  the  belief  that  Providence,:      i 
ce  and  fitness,  must   necessarily  select  a  good 
for  him  —or  what  arc  we  to  think  of  Providence  ?     And 
1  by  that  informing  hand,  would  naturally 
!"■   in   harmony  with   him,  from  the  centre  of  his  profound 
idei  the  ra  >nLr  circle  of  his  variations.      Know  the 

yon  know  the  circle,  and  yon  discover  that  the  varia- 
tion; ■-.  but  you  must  travel  on  the 
in  the  circle  to  gel  to  the  centre.     Consequently  Sir 
Willonghby  put    Miss   Middleton  on  one  or  other  of  t.; 

rom   time  to  time.      Us,  too,  he  drays  into 

the  deeps,  but   wl  have   liurpooned  a  whale  and  are 

hed  to  t  be  rope,  down  we  must  go  ;  the  miracle  is  to 

lin. 

Women  i  ading  off  the  divine  to  the 

.  wi-vt-  his  vision  of  woman.     His 

mit.  .  Lmit  an  angel  in  pottery  as  a  rogue  in 

ir    liim    they     were     what    they    were    when 

fashioned   at   the  beginning;  many  cracked,  many  Btained, 

1 1 en  designed  for  the  elect  of 

At  the  world  he  shut  the  prude's  door 

i;  himself  would  have  branded  them 

with   the   It  n   the  hue  of  fire.     Privately   he  did  so: 

and  he  wa  bis  cm  rem,-  sensitiveness  and 

taste  For  alt  to  be  u  e  critic  of 

them  during  arnival  oi  l,  the  love-season.     Con- 

atantia  ....  can  it    be  told  ?     She  had  been,  be  it  said,  a 

i  frank  chant  with  him  in  that  season;  she 

a   oat         •      be  a   mother  of    I  she  met   the 

salute,  almost    half-way,    ingenuously    unlike   the    coming 

mothers  of  the   regin  inettes,    who  retire    in 


THE  WILD  CHERRY-TREE.  105 

vapours,  downcast,  as  by  convention ;  ladies  most  flattering 
to  the  egoistical  gentleman,  for  they  proclaim  him  the 
'first.'  Constantia's  offence  had  been  no  greater,  but  it  was 
not  that  dramatic  performance  of  purity  which  he  desired 
of  an  affianced  lady,  and  so  the  offence  was  great. 

The  love-season  is  the  carnival  of  egoism,  and  it  brings 
the  touchstone  to  our  natures.  I  speak  of  love,  not  the 
mask,  and  not  of  the  flutings  upon  the  theme  of  love,  but  of 
the  passion  ;  a  flame  having,  like  our  mortality,  death  in  it 
as  well  as  life,  that  may  or  may  not  be  lasting.  Applied  to 
Sir  Willoughby,  as  to  thousands  of  civilized  males,  the 
touchstone  found  him  requiring  to  be  dealt  with  by  his 
betrothed  as  an  original  savage.  She  was  required  to  play 
incessantly  on  the  first  reclaiming  chord  which  led  our 
ancestral  satyr  to  the  measures  of  the  dance,  the  threading 
of  the  maze,  and  the  setting  conformably  to  his  partner 
before  it  was  accorded  to  him  to  spin  her  with  both  hands 
and  a  chirrup  of  his  frisky  heels.  To  keep  him  in  awe  and 
hold  him  enchained,  there  are  things  she  must  never  do, 
dare  never  say,  must  not  think.  She  must  be  cloistral. 
Now,  strange  and  awful  though  it  be  to  hear,  women  per- 
ceive this  requirement  of  them  in  the  spirit  of  the  man  ; 
they  perceive,  too,  and  it  may  be  gratefully,  that  they 
address  their  performances  less  to  the  taming  of  the  green 
and  prankish  monsieur  of  the  forest  than  to  the  pacification 
of  a  voracious  aesthetic  gluttony,  craving  them  insatiably, 
through  all  the  tenses,  with  shrieks  of  the  lamentable  letter 
'  I '  for  their  purity.  Whether  they  see  that  it  has  its 
foundation  in  the  sensual,  and  distinguish  the  ultra-refined 
but  lineally  great-grandson  of  the  Hoof  in  this  vast  and 
dainty  exacting  appetite  is  uncertain.  They  probably  do 
not ;  the  more  the  damage  ;  for  in  the  appeasement  of  the 
glutton  they  have  to  practise  much  simulation  ;  they  are  in 
their  way  losers  like  their  ancient  mothers.  It  is  the  pal- 
pable and  material  of  them  still  which  they  are  tempted  to 
flourish,  wherewith  to  invite  and  allay  pursuit :  a  condition 
under  which  the  spiritual,  wherein  their  hope  lies,  lan- 
guishes. The  capaciously  strong  in  soul  among-  women  will 
ultimately  detect  an  infinite  grossness  in  the  demand  for 
purity  infinite,  spotless  bloom.  Earlier  or  later  they  see 
they  have  been  victims  of  the  singular  Egoist,  have  worn  a 
mask  of  ignorance  to  be  named  innocent,  have  turned  them- 


TIM.   BOO! 

•  produce  for  his  delight,  and  have  really 
mmodity  in  ministering  n    the  lust  for  it, 
elves  to  be  dragged  ages  back  in  playing  upon 
the  fleshly  inm  of  happy  accidt  gratify  his  jeal 

■i.  when  it  should   1 1 : t % « -  been  their  task   to 

il   above    the    fairest    fortune,   and    the   gift   of 

gth  in  women  beyond  ornamental  whiteness.     Are  t hey 

nature  warriors,  like  men?— men's  mates  to   b 

them  heroes  instead  of  puppets?     But  the  devouring  male 

-i    prefers   them    as    inanimate   overwrought    polished 

pure-metal   precious  vessels,  fresh  from  the  hands  of  the 

artil  r  him  to  walk  away   with   hugging,  call  all  his 

own,  drink  of,  and  till  and  drink  of,  and  forget  th.it  he  stole 

them. 

This  running  off  on  a  by-road    is  no  deviation  from   Sir 
Willoughby    Patterne   and    Miss    Clara    Middleton.      He,  a 
fairly  intelligent   man,  and  very  sensitive,  was   blinded  to 
what  was  going  on  within  her  visibly  enough,  by  her  pro- 
on  of  the  article  he  demanded  of  her  sex.     lie  had  to 
e   tii"  fair  young  lady  to  ride  to  his  county. town,  and  his 
design  was  to  conduct  her  throuirh  the  covert  of  a  group  of 
<    to  revel  in  her  soft   confusion.     She  resisted; 
lolutely  returned  to  the  lawn-sward.     He  contrasted 
th  Constantia  in  the  amorous  time,  and   rejoiced   in 
lisappointment.     He  saw  the  Goddess  .Modesty  guard- 
in  ■.:  Purity;   and  one  would  be   hold  to  say  that   he  did   not 
hear  the   Precepts,   Purity's   aged   grannams  maternal  and 
rnal,  cawing  approval  of  her  over  their  munching  gums. 
And  if  you  ask  whether  a  man,  sensitive  and  a  lover,  can  be 
bo  blin  •  i  are  condemned  to  re-peruse  the  foregoing 

i  pli. 
Miss    .Middleton    was    not    sufficiently    instructed   in    the 
:  s  to  know  that  she  had  plunged  herself  ill 

the  thick  of  the  strife  of  one  of  their  great    battles.     Her 
il  position,  however,  was  instilling  knowledge  rapidly, 
Hue  teaches  us  what   we  arc  and  have 
tend    with.       Could    she    marry    this    man':      He    was 
tly  manageable.     Could  she  condescend  to  the  use  of 
ng  him  to  obtain  a   placable  life? — a  horror 
j!     So  vividly  did  the  Bight   of  that  I 

■i    unvarying  level  earth,  swim  on  her   fancy, 
_rry   exclusion  of  it  as  if  it  were 


THE  WILD  CHERRY-TREE.  107 

outside,  assailing  her  :  and  she  nearly  stumbled  upon  young 
Cross  jay. 

"  Oh  !  have  I  hurt  you  ?"  he  cried. 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  it  was  my  fault.  Lead  me  somewhere, 
away  from  everybody." 

The  boy  took  her  hand,  and  she  resumed  her  thoughts; 
and,  pressing  his  fingers  and  feeling  warm  to  him  both  for 
his  presence  and  silence,  so  does  the  blood  in  youth  lead  the 
mind,  even  cool  and  innocent  blood,  even  with  a  touch,  that 
she  said  to  herself :  "  And  if  I  marry,  and  then  ....  Where 
will  honour  be  then  ?  I  marry  him  to  be  true  to  my  word 
of  honour,  and  if  then!  .  .  .  .  '  An  intolerable  languor 
caused  her  to  sigh  profoundly.  It  is  written  as  she  thought 
it ;  she  thought  in  blanks,  as  girls  do,  and  some  women.  A 
shadow  of  the  male  Egoist  is  in  the  chamber  of  their  brains 
overawing  them. 

'Were  I  to  marry,  and  to  run  !'  There  is  the  thought; 
she  is  offered  up  to  your  mercy.  We  are  dealing  with  a 
girl  feeling  herself  desperately  situated,  and  not  a  fool. 

"  I'm  sure  you're  dead  tired,  though,"  said  Crossjay. 

"  No,  I  am  not ;  what  makes  you  think  so  ?"  said  Clara. 

"I  do  think  so." 

"  But  why  do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  You're  so  hot." 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  ?" 

"  Tou're  so  red." 

"  So  are  you,  Crossjay." 

"I'm  only  red  in  the  middle  of  the  cheeks,  except  when 
I've  been  running.  And  then  you  talk  to  yourself,  just  as 
boys  do  when  they  are  blown." 

"  Do  they  ?" 

"  They  say,  '  I  know  I  could  have  kept  up  longer,'  or,  'my 
buckle  broke,'  all  to  themselves,  when  they  break  down 
running." 

"  And  you  have  noticed  that  ?" 

"  And,  Miss  Middleton,  I  don't  wish  you  were  a  boy,  but  ] 
should  like  to  live  near  you  all  my  life  and  be  a  gentleman 
I'm  coming  with  Miss  Dale  this  evening  to  stay  at  the  Hal] 
and  be  looked  after,  instead  of  stopping  with  her  cousin 
who  takes  care  of  her  father.  Perhaps  you  and  I'll  plav 
chess  at  night." 

"  At  night  you  will  go  to  bed,  Crossjay." 


108  Th 

if  I  have  Sir  Willoughby  fcocatch  bold  of.     He  says 
inthority  on  birds' eggs.     I  can  manage  rabbits  and 
ponll  b  a  farmer  a   happy    man  P     But   he  doesn't 

A  cavalry  officer  has  the  besl  chance." 
■•  !  Lng  i"  I"'  a  naval  officer." 

••  1  don'l  know.     It  s  n.it  positive.     I  shall  bring  my  two 
mice,  and  make  them  perform  gymnastics  on  the  dinner- 
fcabh        rhey're  such  dear  little  things.     Naval  officers  are 
Willoughby." 
••  No,  they  are  aot,"  said  Clara;  "they  give  their  lives  to 
their  counl  py." 

\n«l  then  thcy'i  aid  Cross  jay. 

I  wished  Sir  Willoughby   were  confronting  her:  she 

(•■ml. I  hat e  spoken. 

Sh(  i    the  boy  where   Mr.   Whitford  was.     Crossjay 

ecretly  in  the  direction  of  the  double-blossom 
wild-cherry.      Coming  within   gaze  of  the  stem  she  beheld 
•urn  stretched  at    length,  reading,  she  supposed;  asleep, 
she  discovered  :  his  finger  in  t  he  leai  es  of  a  book  ;  and  what 
book  r     She  had  a  curiosity  to  know  the  title  of  the  book  ho 
would  read   beneath  these  boughs,  and  grasping  Crossjay's 
hand  fast  she  craned  her  neck,  as  one  timorous  of  a  fall  in 
ling  over  chasms,  for  a  glimpse  of  the  page;  but  imme- 
diately, and  still  with  a  bent  head,  she  turned  her  face  to 
where   the  load  of   virginal  blossom,  whiter  than  summer- 
d  on   the   sky,  showered    and   drooped  and   clustered  so 
thic  claim  colour  and  seem,  like  higher  Alpine  snows 

in   i  alight,  a    flush  of   white.     From  deep  to  deeper 

o|    white,   her  eyes  perched  and  soared.     Wonder 
i  in  her.      Happiness  in  the  beauty  of  the  tree  pressed 
ipplant  it.  and  was  more  mortal  and  narrower.     Reflec- 
tion  came,  contracting  her  vision  and  weighing  her  to  earth. 
Her  reflection  was  :  ••  He  must  be  good  who  loves  to  lie  and 
Bleep  beneath  the  branches  of  this  tree!"     She  would  rather 
mg   to    her    first    impression:  wonder  so   divine,  so 
unbounded,  was   !  iring   into   homes  of  angel-crowded 

ping   through    folded    and    on    to    folded    white 
fountain-bow  of   wings,   in   innumerable    columns:    but   the 
it  was  |  very  of  it  ;  she  might  as  well  have 

i  child.     The  sensation  of  happiness  promised 
t  hort-lived  in  memory,  and  would   have  been,  had 

-e  of  the  |.  tor  happiness  ravaged 


MISS  MTDDLETON  AND  MR.  WHITFORD.  109 

every  corner  of  it  for  the  secret  of  its  existence.  The  reflec- 
tion took  root.  "  He  must  be  good  !...."  That  reflection 
vowed  to  endure.  Poor  by  comparison  with  what  it  dis- 
placed, it  presented  itself  to  her  as  conferring  something  on 
him,  and  she  would  not  have  had  it  absent  though  it  robbed 
her. 

She  looked  down.     Vernon  was  dreamily  looking  up. 

She  plucked  Crossjay  hurriedly  away,  whispering  that  he 
had  better  not  wake  Mr.  Whitford,  and  then  she  proposed 
to  reverse  their  previous  chase,  and  she  be  the  hound  and  he 
the  hare.  Crossjay  fetched  a  magnificent  start.  On  his 
glancing  behind  he  saw  Miss  Middleton  walking  listlessly, 
with  a  hand  at  her  side. 

•'  There's  a  regular  girl !"  said  he,  in  some  disgust;  for  his 
theory  was,  that  girls  always  have  something  the  matter 
with  them  to  spoil  a  game. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MISS  MIDDLETON  AND  MR.  VERNON  WHITFORD. 

Looking  upward,  not  quite  awakened  out  of  a  transient 
doze,  at  a  fair  head  circled  in  dazzling  blossom,  one  may 
temporize  awhile  with  common  sense,  and  take  it  for  a  vision 
after  the  eyes  have  regained  direction  of  the  mind.  Vernon 
did  so  until  the  plastic  vision  intcrwound  with  reality 
alarmingly.  This  is  the  embrace  of  a  Melusine  who  will 
soon  have  the  brain  if  she  is  encouraged.  Slight  dalliance 
with  her  makes  the  very  diminutive  seem  as  big  as  life.  He 
■jumped  to  his  feet,  rattled  his  throat,  planted  firmness  on 
his  brows  and  mouth,  and  attacked  the  dream-giving  earth 
with  tremendous  long  strides,  that  his  blood  might  be  lively 
at  the  throne  of  understanding.  Miss  Middleton  and  young 
Crossjay  were  within  hail:  it  was  her  face  he  had  seen,  and 
still  the  idea  of  a  vision,  chased  from  his  reasonable  wits, 
knocked  hard  and  again  for  readmission.  There  was  little 
for  a  man  of  humble  mind  toward  the  sex  to  think  of  in  the 
fact  of  a  young  lady's  bending  rather  low  to  peep  at  him 
asleep,  except  that  the  poise  of  her  slender  figure,  between 


1  10  Till:  EGOIST. 

•  ir  of  spying  and  of  listening,  vividly  recalled  liis  liken* 
to  the  Mountain   Echo.     Man  or  maid  sleeping  in 

pen    air  pro-,  pour  tip-toe   cariosity.     Men,  it    is 

rn,  have  in  thai  state  cruelly  been  kissed;  and  no  rights 

don  them,  they  arc  teased  by  a  vapourish  rap- 

:  u  li.it  has  happened  to  them  the  poor  fellows  barely 

■■<•:  they  have  a  crazy  step  From  that  day.     But  a  vision 

rig;  it  is  our  own,  we  can  put  it  aside  and 

"II  to  ir.  play  at  rich  and  poor  with  it,  and  are  not  to  be 

summoned  I  our  laws  and  rules   for  secreting  it  in  our 

B     ides,  it  is  tti"  go!  len  key  of  all  the  possible: 

worlds   expand  beneath    the   dawn  it  brings  us.      Just 

ide  reality,  it  illumines,  enriches  and  softens  real  things; 

— and  to  desire  it  in  preference  to  the  simple  fact,  is  a  damn- 

ing  proof  of  enervation. 

3  Lch  was  Vernon's  winding  up  of  his  brief  drama  of 
fantasy.  He  was  aware  of  the  fantastical  element  in  him 
and  soon  had  it  under.  Which  of  us  who  is  of  any  worth  is 
without  it  ?  He  had  not  much  vanity  to  trouble  him,  and 
.so  his  task  was  not  gigantic.  Especially 
be  it  remarked,  thai  be  was  a  man  of  quick  pace,  the  sove- 
!y  for  the  dispersing  of  the  mental  fen-mist.  He 
had  tried  it  and  knew  that  nonsense  is  to  be  walked  off. 

Near  the  end  of  the  park  young  Crossjay  overtook  him, 
and  (ting  the  pumped  one  a  trifle  more  than  needful, 

I:  "I   Bay,   Mr.  Whitford,  there's  Miss  Middleton  with 
her  handkerchief  out." 

"  What  for,  my  lad  ?"  said  Vernon. 

"I'm   sure   I    don't    know.     All   of  a  sudden  she  bump<d 

n.     And,  look  what  follows  lt i ids  are! — here  she  comes 

as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  1   saw  her  feel  at  her  side." 

ra  was  shaking  her  lead  to  express  a  denial.     "I  am 

1  unwell,"  she  said  when  site  came  near.     "I  guessed 

1  s  in  running  up  to  you;  he's  a  good-for- 

i  .officio  I  I   and  rested  for  a  moment." 

peered  at  her  eyelids.     Vernon  looked  away  and 

Are  \o  a  stroll  ?" 

all  it  be  brisk?" 
"  Xou  have  ;  !." 

He  led   at   a  swing  of  the  legs   that   accelerated   young 
I  •  he  double,  but  she  with  her  short  swift  equal 


MISS  MIDDLETON  AND  MR.   WH1TFORD.  Ill 

Bteps  glided  along  easily  on  a  line  by  his  shoulder,  and  he 
groaned  to  think  that  of  all  the  girls  of  earth  this  one  should 
have  been  chosen  for  the  position  of  fine  lady. 

"  You  won't  tire  me,"  said  she,  in  answer  to  his  look. 

"  You  remind  me  of  the  little  Piedmontese  Bersaglieri  on 
the  march." 

"  I  have  seen  them  trotting  into  Como  from  Milan." 

•'  They  cover  a  quantity  of  ground  in  a  day,  if  the  ground's 
flat.     You  want  another  sort  of  step  for  the  mountains." 

"  I  should  not  attempt  to  dauce  up." 

"  They  soon  tame  romantic  notions  of  them." 

"  The  mountains  tame  luxurious  dreams,  you  mean.  I 
see  how  they  are  conquered.  I  can  plod.  Anything  to  be 
high  up  !" 

"Well,  there  you  have  the  secret  of  good  work :  to  plod 
On  and  still  keep  the  passion  fresh." 

"Yes,  when  we  have  an  aim  in  view." 

"  We  always  have  one." 

"  Captives  have  ?" 

"  More  than  the  rest  of  us." 

Ignorant  man  !  What  of  wives  miserably  wedded  ?  What 
aim  in  view  have  these  most  woeful  captives  ?  Horror 
shrouds  it,  and  shame  reddens  through  the  folds  to  tell  of 
innermost  horror. 

"  Take  me  back  to  the  mountains,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Whit- 
ford,"  Miss  Middleton  said,  fallen  out  of  sympathy  with  him. 
"  Captives  have  death  in  view,  but  that  is  not  an  aim." 

"Why  may  not  captives  expect  a  release  ?" 

"  Hardly  from  a  tyrant." 

"  If  you  are  thinking  of  tyrants,  it  may  be  so.  Say  the 
tyrant  dies  ?" 

"  The  prison-gates  are  unlocked  and  out  comes  a  skeleton. 
But  why  will  you  talk  of  skeletons  !  The  very  name  of 
mountain  seems  life  in  comparison  with  any  other  sub- 
ject." 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  Yernon,  with  the  fervour  of  a  man 
lighting  on  an  actual  truth  in  his  conversation  with  a  young 
lady,  "it's  not  the  first  time  I  have  thought  you  would  be  at 
home  in  the  Alps.  You  would  walk  and  climb  as  well  as 
you  dance." 

She  liked  to  hear  Clara  Middleton  talked  of,  and  of  her 
having  been  thought  of :  and  giving  him  friendly  eyes,  barely 


1  12  Till.  EGO] 

thai  he  was  in  :i  glow,  six'  Bflid,  "If  you  speak  so 
i  .-intrly  I  Bhall  fancj  we  are  near  an  ascent." 

11 1  wish  wi  said  he. 

"  We  can  realize  U  by  < i  w.ll iiiir  on  it,  don't  you  think  ?" 
"  We  ''.in  begin  climbing." 
••i  )  .  |"  -  ■  ■  ■<!  herself  Bhadowily. 

"  Which  mountain  shall  it  be  ?"  said  Vernon  in  the  right 

I    time. 

Miss   Middleton  suggested   a  lady's  mountain  first,  for  a 

trial.     "And  then,  if  you  think   well  enough  of  me — if  I 

nol  stumbled  more  than  twice,  or  asked  more  than  ten 

-  how  far  it  is  from  the  top,  I  should  like  to  be  promoted 

t  a  giant." 

They  went  np  some  of  the  lesser  heights  of  Switzerland 

mid  Styria,  ami  Bettled  in  South  Tyrol,  the  young  lady  pre- 

y  this  districl  Eor  t  lie  strenuous  exercise  of  her  climbing1 

ise  she  loved  Italian  colour;  and  it  seemed  an 

■  1   reason  to  the  genial  imagination  she  had 

in   Mr.  Whitford:    "Though,"  said  he  abruptly, 

'•  Y  •  -n  much  [talian  as  French." 

She  hoped  she  was  English,  she  remarked. 

;  are  English;  ....  yes."     He  moderated 
at  with  the  halting  aliirrnative. 
She    inquired   wonderingly    why   he    spoke    in   apparent 

•  Well,  yon   have  French  feet,  for  example:  French  wits; 
ch  impatience,"  he  lowered  his  voice,  "and  charm." 
of  compliments." 
"  Possibly.     I  was  nut  conscious  of  paying  them." 

i  o  rebel  ?  ' 
"  T  i  <■}.  dl(  least." 

a>l I'ul  character." 

a  character." 
'■  I  ;t  for  an  Alpine  comrade  ?" 
''I  trades  anywhere." 

'  It  i  -room  sculpture:  that  is  the 

it  !"  she  dropped  a  dramatic  Bigh. 
1  he  been  willing  she  would   have  continued  the  theme, 
■■  a  poor  creai  ore  long  trnau  ing  her  sensations 
m  the  outside.     It  fell  away.    A 
be  could  not  renev   it:  and  he  was  evidently  indif- 
1  isfaction  dissectel  an  1  s'arn^ed 


MISS  MIDDLETON  AND  MR.  WHITFORD.  113 

her  a  foreigner.  With  it  passed  her  holiday.  She  had  for- 
gotten Sir  Willoughby :  she  remembered  him  and  said : 
"  You  knew  Miss  Durham,  Mr.  Whitford." 

He  answered  briefly  :  "I  did." 

"  Was  she  ....  ?"  some  hot-faced  inquiry  peered  forth 
and  withdrew. 

"  Very  handsome,"  said  Vernon. 

"English?" 

"  Yes  :  the  dashing  style  of  English." 

"  Very  courageous." 

"  I  daresay  she  had  a  kind  of  courage." 

"  She  did  very  wrong." 

"  I  won't  say  no.  She  discovered  a  man  more  of  a  match 
with  herself ;  luckily  not  too  late.     We're  at  the  mercy  .  .  ." 

"  Was  she  not  unpardonable  ?" 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  that  of  any  one." 

"  But  you  agree  that  she  did  wrong." 

"  I  suppose  I  do.  She  made  a  mistake  and  she  corrected 
it.     If  she  had  not,  she  would  have  made  a  greater  mistake." 

"  The  manner  .  .  .   ." 

"  That  was  bad — as  far  as  we  know.  The  world  has  not 
much  right  to  judge.  A  false  start  must  now  and  then  be 
made.     It's  better  not  to  take  notice  of  it,  I  think." 

"  What  is  it  we  are  at  the  mercy  of  ?" 

"  Currents  of  feeling,  our  natures.  I  am  the  last  man  to 
preach  on  the  subject :  young  ladies  are  enigmas  to  me  ;  I 
fancy  they  must  have  a  natural  perception  of  the  husband 
suitable  to  them,  and  the  reverse  ;  and  if  they  have  a  certain 
degree  of  courage,  it  follows  that  they  please  themselves." 

"  They  are  not  to  reflect  on  the  harm  they  do  ?"  said  Miss 
Middleton. 

"  By  all  means  let  them  reflect ;  they  hurt  nobody  by  doing 
that." 

':  But  a  breach  of  faith  !" 

"  If  the  faith  can  be  kept  through  life,  all's  well." 

"  And  then  there  is  the  cruelty,  the  injury  !" 
"I  really  think  that  if  a  young  lady  came  to  me  to  inform 
me  she  must  break  our  engagement — I  have  never  been  put 
to   the   proof,  but  to   suppose  it: — I  should  not  think  her 
cruel." 

"  Then  she  would  not  be  much  of  a  loss." 
"  And  I  should   not  think  so  for   this  reason,   that  it  is 

I 


114  Til 

ble  for  a  girl   to  come  to  Buch  a  resolution  without 

.-lv  showing  signs  of   n   to  ber  ....  the  man  she  is 

I   think   ii    unfair  to  engage  a   girl  for  longer 

than  elc  <>r  two,  jusl  time  enough  for  ber  preparations 

blications." 

•■  I  always  intent   on  himself ,  signs  are  likely  to  be 

I  by  him,"  Baid  M  iss  M  Iddleton. 
llr  did  nol  anawi  r,  and  Bhe  said  quickly: 
••  li   musi  always  be  a  cruelty.     The  world  will  think  so. 
It  is  an  acl  of  inconst 

•■It'    they    knew    one    another    well    before    they    were 

••  An-  yon  ii"i  Bingularly  tolerant  p"  said  she. 
•  hidi  Vernon  replied  with  airy  cordialil 
••  I  -••-  it  is  right  to  judge  by  results;  we'll  leave 

pity  to  tin-  historian,  \\  li"  is  bonnd  to  be  a  professional 
il:-t   and   put    pleas  of  human   nature  out  of  the  scales. 
lady  in  question  may  have  been  to  blame,  but  no  hearts 
•  kin.  and   here  we   have  four  happy  instead  of  two 
irablo." 
Ii  ality  of  countenance  appealed  to  her 

this  judgement   by  results,  and  she  nodded  and 
i  he  awe-stricken  speak. 

until   young  Crossjay   fi-11    into   the 

and  was  gol  on  his  legs  half- 

:.  with  a  hanging  1 1 j »  and  a  face  like  the  inside  of  a 

tighl   have  been  walking  in  the  desert, 

and  I  he  pl<  be  had  in  societ  v. 

They  led   the  fated    lad   home  between  them,  singularly 

ther  by  their  joint  ministrations  to  him,  in  which 

v  had  to  -tand   fibre,  and  sweet  good  nature  made 

any  trial.    Tiny  were  hand  in  hand  With  the  little 

fello  |  hysioian  aud  professional  nurse. 


THE  FIRST  EFFORT  AFTER  FREEDOM.  115 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  FIRST  EFFORT  AFTER  FREEDOM. 

Crossjat's  accident  was  only  another  proof,  as  Vernon  told 
Miss  Dale,  that  the  boy  was  but  half  monkey. 

"  Something  fresh  ?"  she  exclaimed  on  seeing  him  brought 
into  the  Hall,  where  she  had  jiist  arrived. 

"  Simply  a  continuation,"  said  Vernon.  "  He  is  not  so 
prehensile  as  he  should  be.  He  probably  in  extremity 
relies  on  the  tail  that  has  been  docked.  Are  you  a  man, 
Crossjay  ?" 

"  I  should  think  I  was !"  Crossjay  replied  with  an  old 
man's  voice,  and  a  ghastly  twitch  for  a  smile  overwhelmed 
the  compassionate  ladies. 

Miss  Dale  took  possession  of  him.  "  Tou  err  in  the  other 
direction,"  she  remarked  to  Vernon. 

"  But  a  little  bi-acing  roughness  is  better  than  spoiling 
him,"  said  Miss  Middleton. 

She  did  not  receive  an  answer,  and  she  thought,  "  What- 
ever Willoughby  does  is  right,  to  this  lady  !" 

Clara's  impression  was  renewed  when  Sir  Willoughby  sat 
beside  Miss  Dale  in  the  evening;  and  certainly  she  had  never 
seen  him  shine  so  picturesquely  as  in  his  bearing  with  Miss 
Dale.  The  sprightly  sallies  of  the  two,  their  rallyings,  their 
laughter,  and  her  fine  eyes,  and  his  handsome  gestures,  won 
attention  like  a  fencing  match  of  a  couple  keen  with  the  foils 
to  display  the  mutual  skill.  And  it  was  his  design  that  she 
should  admire  the  display ;  he  was  anything  but  obtuse ;  en- 
joying  the  match  as  he  did  and  necessarily  did  to  act  so 
excellent  a  part  in  it,  he  meant  the  observer  to  see  the  man 
he  was  with  a-  lady  not  of  raw  understanding.  So  it  went 
on  from  day  to  day  for  three  days. 

She  fancied  once  that  she  detected  the  agreeable  stirring 
of  the  brood  of  jealousy,  and  found  it  neither  in  her  heart 
nor  in  her  mind,  but  in  the  book  of  wishes,  well  known  to 
the  young,  where  they  write  matter  which  may  sometimes 
be  independent  of  both  those  volcanic  albums.  Jealousy 
would  have  been  a  relief  to  her,  a  dear  devil's  aid.  She 
studied  the  complexion  of  jealousy  to  delude  herself  with 
the  sense  of  the  spirit  being  in  her,  and  all  the  while  sha 

i2 


1  L6  'l  H  3T. 

i  vile  theatre  whereof  the  imperfection  of  the 

ichinery  rather  i  ban  i  he  performance  is  the  wretched 

if  amusemenl . 

Vernon  had  deeply  depressed  her.     She  was  hunted  by 

the  figure  4.     Fow  happy  l  of  two  miserable.     He  had 

,  it.  involving  her  among  the  four;  and  so  it  must  be,  she 

lidered,  and  Bhe  must   be  as  happy  as  she  could  ;  for  not 

only  was  he  incapable  of  perceiving  her  state,  he  was  unable 

to  imagine  other  circumstam  unround  her.    How,  to  be 

jusl  to  him,  were  fchey  imaginable  by  him  or  any  one  ? 

Her  horrible  isolation  of  Becresy  in  a  world  amiable  in 
onsnspectingness,  frightene  I  her.     To  Sing  away  her  secret, 
inform,  to  be  unrebellious,  uncritical,  submissive,  became 
an  impatient  desire;  and  the  task  did  not  appear  so  difficult 
since  Miss  Dale's  arrival.    Endearments  had  been  rarer,  more 
formal ;  living  bodily  tmtronbled  and  unashamed,  and,  as  she 
phrased  it,  having  no  one  to  care  for  her,  she  turned  insen- 
sibly in  the  direction  where  she  was  due;  she  slightly  imitated 
Miss  I  tale's  colloquial  responsiveness.    To  tell  truth,  she  felt 
vivacious  in  a  moderate  way  with  Willoughby  after  Beeing 
him  with  Miss  Dale.     Liberty  wore  the  aspect  of  a  towering 
prison-wall  ;  the  desperate  undertaking  of  climbing  one  side 
and  dropping  to  the  other  was  more  than  she,  unaided,  could 
ilve  on  ;  consequenl  ly,  as  no  one  cared  for  her,  a  worthless 
i-ure  might  as  well  cease  dreaming  and  stipulating  for 
the  fulfilmenl  of  her  dreams  ;  she  might  as  well  yield  to  her 
make  t  he  best  of  it. 
Sir  Willoughby  was  Mattered  and  satisfied.    Clara's  adopted 
vivacity  proved  his  thorough  knowledge  of  feminine  nature; 
nor  did   her  feebleness  in  sustaining  it   displease  him.     A 
dy  look  of  hers  had  of  Late  perplexed  the  man,  and  he 
ltd  bj  if  her  inefficiency  where  he  excelled. 

Tic  effort  and  the  failure  were  both  of  good  omen. 

Bui    she   could  not  continue   the    effort.      He   had  over- 
weighted  her  too  much  for  the  mimicry  of  a  sentiment  to 
■  en  and  have  an  apparently  natural  place  among  her  im- 
I  now  an  idea  came  to  he]- that  he  might,  it  might 
oped,  possibly  see  in  Miss  Dale,  by  present  contrast,  the 
iit  :  by  contrast  with  an  unanswering  creature 
herself,  he  might  perhaps  realize  in  Miss  Dale's  greater 
implishments  and  her  devotion  to  him  the  merit  of  suit- 
ability ;   he  might  be  induced  to  do  her  justice.     Dim  as  the 


THE  FIRST  EFFORT  AFTER  FREEDOM.  117 

loophole  was,  Clara  fixed  her  mind  on  it  till  it  gathered  light. 
And  as  a  prelude  to  action,  she  plunged  herself  into  a  state 
of  such  profound  humility,  that  to  accuse  it  of  being  simu- 
lated would  be  venturesome,  though  it  was  not  positive. 
The  tempers  of  the  young  are  liquid  fires  in  isles  of  quick- 
sand ;  the  precious  metals  not  yet  cooled  in  a  solid  earth. 
Her  compassion  for  La?titia  was  less  forced ;  but  really  she 
was  almost  as  earnest  in  her  self-abasement,  for  she  had  not 
latterly  been  brilliant,  not  even  adequate  to  the  ordinary  re- 
quirements of  conversation.  She  had  no  courage,  no  wit,  no 
diligence,  nothing  that  she  could  distinguish  save  discontent- 
ment like  a  corroding  acid,  and  she  went  so  far  in  sincerity 
as  with  a  curious  shift  of  feeling  to  pity  the  man  plighted  to 
her.  If  it  suited  her  purpose  to  pity  Sir  Willoughby,  she 
was  not  moved  by  policy,  be  assured  ;  her  needs  were  her 
nature,  her  moods  her  mird  ;  she  had  the  capacity  to  make 
anything  serve  her  by  passing  into  it  with  the  glance  which 
discerned  its  usefulness  ;  and  this  is  how  it  is  that  the  young, 
when  they  are  in  trouble,  without  approaching  the  elevation 
of  scientitic  hypocrites,  can  teach  that  able  class  lessons  in 
hypocrisy. 

"  Why  should  not  Willoughby  be  happy,"  she  said  ;  and 
the  explanation  was  pushed  forth  by  the  second  thought 
"  Then  I  shall  be  free !"     Still  that  thought  came  second. 

The  desire  for  the  happiness  of  Willoughby  was  fervent 
on  his  behalf,  and  wafted  her  far  from  friends  and  letters  to 
a  narrow  Tyrolean  valley,  where  a  shallow  river  ran,  with 
the  indentations  of  a  remotely-seen  army  of  winding  ranks 
in  column,  topaz  over  the  pebbles  to  hollows  of  ravishing 
emerald.  There  sat  Liberty,  after  her  fearful  leap  over  the 
prison-wall,  at  peace  to  watch  the  water  and  the  falls  of 
sunshine  on  the  mountain  above,  between  descending  pine- 
stem  shadows.  Clara's  wish  for  his  happiness,  as  soon  as 
she  had  housed  herself  in  the  imagination  of  her  freedom, 
was  of  a  purity  that  made  it  seem  exceedingly  easy  for  her 
to  speak  to  him. 

The  opportunity  was  offered  by  Sir  Willoughby.  Every 
morning  after  breakfast,  Miss  Dale  walked  across  the  park 
to  see  her  father,  and  on  this  occasion  Sir  Willoughby  and 
Miss  Middleton  went  with  her  as  far  as  the  lake,  all  three 
discoursing  of  the  beauty  of  various  trees,  birches,  aspens, 
poplars,  beeches,  then  in  their  new  green.     Miss  Dale  loved 


•III. 

tli.'  aspen,  Mioa  Middleton  the  beech,  Sir  Willoughby  the 
ii.  and  pretty  things  were  Baid   by  each  in  praise  of  the 
ired  object,   particularly   by    Miss    Dale.     So  mnch   so 
that  ulnit  Bhe  bad  gone  on  he  recalled  one  of  her  remarks, 
and  said:  "  I  bi  if  the  whole  place  were  swept  away  to- 

morrow, Lsetitia   Dale  could   reconstruct  it,  and  put  those 
aspens  on  the  aorth  of  the  lake  in  number  and  situation  cor- 
rectly  where  yon   have  them   sow,     I  would  guarantee  her 
iription  of  it  in  absence  correct." 

••  Why  should  Bhe  be  abseni  P"  said  Clara,  palpitating. 

"Well,  why!"  returned  Sir  Willoughby.  "As  you  say, 
there  is  no  reason  why.  The  art  of  life,  and  mine  will  he 
principally  a  country  life — town  is  not  life,  but  a  tornado 
whirling  atoms — the  art  is  to  associate  a  group  of  sympa- 
thetic friends  in  our  neighbourhood;  and  it  is  a  fact  worth 
noting  that  if  ever  I  feel  tired  of  the  place,  a  short  talk  with 
tia  Dale  refreshes  it  more  than  a,  month  or  two  on  the 
mm  hi.  She  has  the  well  of  enthusiasm.  And  there  is 
a  great  advantage  in  having  a  cultivated  person  at  command, 
with  whom  one  can  chat  of  any  topic  under  the  sun.  1  repeat, 
you  have  no  need  of  town  if  you  have  friends  like  Lsetitia 
Dale  within  call.      My  mother  esteemed  her  highly." 

"  Willoughby,  she  is  not  obliged  to  go." 

"  I  hope  not.  And,  my  love.  I  rejoice  that  you  have  taken 
to  her.  Her  lather's  health  is  poor.  She  would  be  a  young 
spinster  to  live  alone  in  a  country  cottage." 

"  What  of  your  Bcheme  P" 

"  <  >  1  ■  1  Vernon  is  a  very  foolish  fellow." 

"He  has  declined?" 

"  Nol  a  word  on  the  subject!  I  have  only  to  propose  it  to 
be  snubbed,  I  know." 

'  You  may  not  be  aware  how  you  throw  him  into  the 
shade  with  her." 

"Nothing  seems  to  teach  him  the  art  of  dialogue  with 

"  Are  not  gentlemen  shy  when  they  see  themselves  out- 

•  Be  hasn't  it,  my  love:  Vernon  is  deficient  in  the  lady's 
tongue." 

"I  t  him   for  that." 

tie,  vmi   say  ?     I  do  not  know  of  any  shining—' 
.  who  lights  me,  path  and  person!" 


THE  FIRST  EFFORT  AFTER  FREEDOM.  119 

The  identity  of  the  one  was  conveyed  to  her  in  a  bow  and 
a  soft  pressure. 

"  Not  only  has  he  not  the  lady's  tongue,  which  I  hold  to 
be  a  man's  proper  accomplishment,"  continued  Sir  Wil- 
loughby,  "  he  cannot  turn  his  advantages  to  account.  Here 
has  Miss  Dale  been  with  him  now  four  days  in  the  house. 
They  are  exactly  on  the  same  footing  as  when  she  entered  it. 
You  ask  ?  I  will  tell  you.  It  is  this  :  it  is  want  of  warmth. 
Old  Vernon  is  a  scholar — and  a  fish.  "Well,  perhaps  he  has 
cause  to  be  shy  of  matrimony :  but  he  is  a  fish." 

"  You  are  reconciled  to  his  leaving  you  ?" 

"  False  alarm  !  The  resolution  to  do  anything  unaccus- 
tomed is  quite  beyond  old  Vernon." 

"  But  if  Mr.  Oxford — Whitford  ....  your  swans  comiug 
sailing  up  the  lake,  how  beautiful  they  look  when  they  are 
indignant !  I  was  going  to  ask  you,  surely  men  witnessing 
a  marked  admiration  for  some  one  else  will  naturally  be  dis- 
couraged ?" 

Sir  Willonghby  stiffened  with  sudden  enlightenment. 
Though  the  word  jealousy  had  not  been  spoken,  the  drift  of 
her  observations  was  clear.  Smiling  inwardly,  he  said :  and 
the  sentences  were  not  enigmas  to  her  :   "  Surely,  too,  young 

ladies a  little  ? — Too  far  ?     But  an  old  friendship  ! 

About  the  same  as  the  fitting  of  an  old  glove  to  a  hand. 
Hand  and  glove  have  only  to  meet.  Where  there  is  natural 
harmony  you  would  not  have  discord.  Ay,  but  you  have  it 
if  you  check  the  harmony.     My  dear  girl !     You  child !" 

He  had  actually,  in  this  parabolic  and  commendable 
obscureness,  for  which  she  thanked  him  in  her  soul,  struck 
the  very  point  she  had  not  named  and  did  not  wish  to  hear 
named,  but  wished  him  to  strike  :  he  was  anything  but 
obtuse.  His  exultation,  of  the  compressed  sort,  was  extreme, 
on  hearing  her  cry  out : 

"  Young  ladies  may  be.  Oh  !  not  I,  not  I.  I  can  con- 
vince you.  Not  that.  Believe  me,  Willouebby.  I  do  not 
know  what  it  is  to  feel  that,  or  anything  like  it.  I  cannot 
conceive  a  claim  on  any  one's  life — as  a  claim :  or  the  con- 
tinuation of  an  engagement  not  founded  on  perfect,  perfect 
sympathy.  How  should  I  feel  it,  then  ?  It  is,  as  you  say 
of  Mr.  Ox — Whitford,  bevond  me." 

Sir  Willoughby  caught  up  the  Ox — Whitford. 

Bursting  with  laughter  in  his  joyful  pride,  he  called  it  a 


'1  I! 

For  she  thought 

and   tin  re  a  raw  young  li 

the   iV  of   ber  plighted   man :  which  is 

e  properly  belonging  to  him:  as  it  were, 

cpenditure  in  genuflexions  to  way- 

•    ■  ■    ace  Bhe  should  bring  intact  to  the 

Deris  ion  ins<  roots  her. 

subjecl  -  ber  jealousy — he  bad  no  desire  to 

She  bad  winced:    the  woman  bad  been  toucl     I 

_■  in  the  girl :  enough.     She  attempted  the  subject 

lintly,  and  Ins  careless  parrying  threw  her 

i  bitten  her  tongue  Eor  that  reiterated  stupid 

on  the  name  of  Whitford;  and  because  she  was  innocent 

at  f  bed  in  asking  herself  how  she  could  be 

guill 

•ill  know  the  botanic  titles  of  these  wildflowers," 
I. 
'•  W  bo  ':"  he  inquired, 
and  Miss  Kale." 
Sir  Willoughby  shrugged.     He  was  amused. 
■  No  woman  on  earth  will  grace  a  barouche  so  exquisitely 

1  llai  .1  !" 
■•  W  id  she. 

ing  our  annual  two  months  in  London.     I  drive  a 
■  tere,  and  venl  prophecy   that  my  equipage 

t  excitement  of  any  in  London.    I  see 
old  Hoi  i  •■  I  >■   I  zing  !" 

Sh  ed.     She  could  not  drag  him  to  the  word,  or  a 

ssary  to  her  subject. 
'  then  -.  she  saw  it.     She  had   marly  let  it  go, 

.t  being  obliged  to  name  it. 

in    mean,    Willoughhy  ?    the   people  in 
would    he    jealous? — Colonel    De    Craye?      How 
Thi  '  jentiment  I  cannot  understand." 

-;  ioul.it.  .I  the  "  Of  course  not"  of  an 
i  he  conl  riry. 

"Il  "•  .  ..,    I    .1  .   Dot." 

■   in  hertrap.     Ami  he  was  imagining  himself 
•    ■     nature. 
"'  Willoughby  P      I  am  so  utterly 


THE  FIRST  EFFORT  AFTER  FREEDOM.  121 

incapable  of  it  that — listen  to  me — were  you  to  come  to  me 
to  te'l  me,  as  you  might,  how  much  better  suited  to  you 
Miss  Dale  has  appeared  than  I  am — and  I  fear  I  am  not ;  it 
should  be  spoken  plainly ;  unsuited  altogether,  perhaps — I 
would,  I  beseech  you  to  believe — you  must  believe  me — give 
you  ....  give  you  your  freedom  instantly;  most  truly; 
and  engage  to  speak  of  you  as  I  should  think  of  you. 
Willoughby,  you  would  have  no  one  to  praise  you  in  public 
and  in  private  as  I  should,  for  you  would  be  to  me  the  most 
honest,  truthful,  chivalrous  gentleman  alive.  And  in  that 
case  I  would  undertake  to  declare  that  she  would  not  admire 
you  more  than  I  :  Miss  Dale  would  not ;  she  would  not 
admire  you  more  than  I ;  not  even  Miss  Dale  !" 

This,  her  first  direct  leap  for  liberty,  set  Clara  panting, 
and  so  much  had  she  to  say  that  the  nervous  and  the  intel- 
lectual halves  of  her  clashed  like  cymbals,  dazing  and 
stunning  her  with  the  appositeness  of  things  to  be  said,,  and 
dividing  her  in  indecision  as  to  the  cunningest  to  move  him 
of  the  many  pressing. 

The  condition  of  feminine  jealousy  stood  revealed. 

He  had  driven  her  farther  than  he  intended. 

"  Come,  let  me  allay  these  .  .  .  ."  he  soothed  her  with 
hand  and  voice  while  seeking  for  his  phrase ;  "  these  magni- 
fied pin-points.  Now,  my  Clara !  on  my  honour  !  and  when 
I  put  it  forward  in  attestation,  my  honour  has  the  most 
serious  meaning  speech  can  have  ;  ordinarily  my  word  has 
to  suffice  for  bonds,  promises  or  asseverations :  on  my 
honour  !  not  merely  is  there,  my  poor  child  !  no  ground  of 
suspicion,  I  assure  you,  I  declare  to  you,  the  fact  of  the  case 
is  the  very  reverse.  Now,  mark  me ;  of  her  sentiments  I 
cannot  pretend  to  speak ;  I  did  not,  to  my  knowledge, 
originate,  I  am  not  responsible  for  them,  and  I  am,  before 
the  law,  as  we  will  say,  ignorant  of  them  :  that  is,  I  have 
never  heard  a  declaration  of  them,  and  I  am,  therefore,  under 
pain  of  the  stigma  of  excessive  fatuity,  bound  to  be  non- 
cognizant.  But  as  to  myself,  I  can  speak  for  myself,  and, 
on  my  honour  !  Clara — to  be  as  direct  as  possible,  even  to 
baldness,  and  you  know  I  loathe  it — I  could  not,  I  repeat, 
I  could  not  marry  Lcetitia  Dale  !  Let  me  impress  it  on  you. 
No  flatteries — we  are  all  susceptible  more  or  less — no  con- 
ceivable condition  could  bring  it  about ;  no  amount  of  admi- 
ration.   She  and  I  are  excellent  friends  ;  we  cannot  be  more. 


TB 

ttural  concord  of  our  minds 

a. .man  of  genius.     I  do 

1  miration   of   her.      There  are 

I    require  a  Lrotitia  Dale  to  bring  me 

1  indebted  to  her  for  the  enjoymenl 

••  ith,  fewer  still  are 

privilej i'  playing  with  a  human  being.     I  am 

I  own,  :n   ■  I  ■  ep  gratitude;  I  own  to  a  livi 

Dale,  i'H    if  she  is  displeasing  in  the 
:  V  by   ....  by  the  breadth  of  an  eyelash, 

I 

Willoughby's  arm   waved    Miss  Dale   off   away  into 
;ness  in  i  he  wildern 

-hat   her  1  led  her  eyeballs  in  a  frenzy  of 

■  It  from  t be  Egoisl . 

I  in  tin- colloquy  to  be  an  advocate 
common  humanity. 
\h:'  said,    simply   determining  that  the   subject 

"And,  ah!1     he  mocked  her  tenderly.     "  True,  though! 
-  better  than  my  Clara  that  I  require  youth, 
i   the  other  undefinable  attributes  fitting 
mine  and   beseeming  the  station  of  the  lady  called  to 
r  my  household    and   represent  me?     What  says 
;  per?     But  you  are !  my  love,  you  are  ! 

i  tly,  and  you   .    .    .    ." 

••I   do!    I   do!"  interposed  Clara:  "if  1   did  not  by  this 
dd  be  idiotic.     Lei   me  assure  you,  I  understand 
<  >h  !  1  Miss  1  >ale  regards  me 

imanon  earth.     Willoughby,  if  I  possessed 
.  her  hearl    and  mind,  no  doubt  I  should 
you   musi    hear  me,  hear  me  out — my 
burning    prayer,    my  wish  to 
She   appreciates  you:  I  do  not — to  my 
!  you :  I  do   not,  I    cannot. 

to  her.     It  has  been  so  for  yi  ars.     No 
I  daresay  nol  for  the  impossibility 
....  vhere  we  should ;  all  love  bewilders 

lit.     I  !'H  she  loves  you, 
i  pined.     [  b<  1   1  be   health  you 

l!ut  you,  Willoughby,  can 
.  and  your  society,  the 


THE  FIRST  EFFORT  AFTER  FREEDOM.  123 

pleasure  of  your  society  would  certainly  restore  it.  You 
look  so  handsome  together  !  She  has  unbounded  devotion : 
as  for  me  I  cannot  idolize.  I  see  faults  ;  I  see  them  daily. 
They  astonish  and  wound  me.  Tour  pride  would  not  bear 
to  hear  them  spoken  of,  least  of  all  by  your  wife.  You 
warned  me  to  beware — that  is,  you  said,  you  said  some- 
thing." 

Her  busy  brain  missed  the  subterfuge  to  cover  her  slip  of 
the  tongue. 

Sir  Willouorhby  struck  in:  "And  when  I  sav  that  the 
entire  concatenation  is  based  on  an  erroneous  observation  of 
facts,  and  an  ei-roneous  deduction  from  that  erroneous  obser- 
vation ! — ?  No,  no.  Have  confidence  in  me.  I  propose  it 
to  you  in  this  instance,  purely  to  save  you  from  deception. 
You  are  cold,  my  love  ?  you  shivered." 

"  I  am  not  cold,"  said  Clara.  "  Some  one,  I  suppose,  was 
walking  over  my  grave." 

The  gulf  of  a  caress  hove  in  view  like  an  enormous  billow 
hollowing  under  the  curled  ridge. 

She  stooped  to  a  buttercup  ;  the  monster  swept  by. 

"  Your  grave  !"  he  exclaimed  over  her  head ;  "  my  own 
girl!" 

"  Is  not  the  orchis  naturally  a  stranger  in  ground  so  far 
away  from  the  chalk,  "Willoughby  r" 

"  I  am  incompetent  to  pronounce  an  opinion  on  such 
important  matters.  My  mother  had  a  passion  for  every 
description  of  flower.  I  fancy  I  have  some  recollection  of 
her  scattering  the  flower  you  mention  over  the  park." 

"  If  she  were  living  now  !" 

"  We  should  be  happy  in  the  blessing  of  the  most  esti- 
mable of  women,  my  Clara." 

"  She  would  have  listened  to  me.  She  would  have  realized 
what  I  mean." 

"Indeed,  Clara— poor  soul!"  he  murmured  to  himself 
aloud :  "  indeed  you  are  absolutely  in  error.  If  I  have 
seemed — but  I  repeat,  you  are  deceived.  The  idea  of 
'  fitness '  is  a  total  hallucination.  Supposing  you — I  do  it 
even  in  play  painfully — entirely  out  of  the  way,  unthought 
of  .  .  .  ." 

"  Extinct,"  Clara  said  low. 

"Non-existent  for  me,"  he  selected  a  preferable  lerm. 
"  Suppose  it ;  I  should  still,  in  spite  of  an  admiration  I  havo 


124  tii  r. 

i  I   it  incnmbenl  on   me  to  conceal,  still  be — I 

<  /•  of  my  hand 

It  may   be  thai  i    ibedded  in  my  mind 

i  nothing  bul  ;i  friend.      I  received  the  stamp 

ith.     People  havi  ed   it  —  we  do,  it  seems, 

her  "ii  inter-reflecting." 

i  him  with  a  shrewd  satisfaction  to  see 

i\    irk. 

l,1  it    is  ;i   common  remark,"  she   said.      "The 

she    comes    near,    any   one 

ned  the  iron  gate   into   the   garden, 
anghty  litl  le  suspicion." 
••  Bui  n  i-  atiful  sight,  Willoughby.     I  like  to  see 

r.     I  like  il  as  I  li  ee  colours  match." 

■  11.     There  is  no  barm,  then.     We  shall  often  be 
fair   friend.     Bui    the   instant! — you 
timent  of  disapprobation." 
-  I 
I  her.     That    is,  as   to  the  word,  I    constitute 

iho,  to  clear  any  vestige  of   suspicion.      She 

of  a  person  doomed  to  extinction  without 

for  whoever  offends  my  bride,  my  wife, 

e :  very  deeply  offends  me." 

-  of  your  wife  .  .  .  ."     Clara  stamped 

;eptibly  on  the  lawn-sward,  which  was  irre- 

her    fretfulness.      She   broke    from   the 

-    mild    tone    of    irony,    and    said  : 

have  their  honour  to  swear  by  equally 

have:  veto  swear  an  oath  at  the 

rake  it  for  uttered  when  I  tell 

Id   make  me  happier  than  your  union 

much  as  I  can.     Tell  me 

ell-ki  v-smile   of    duty   upholding 

on,  he  I  :   ""  Allow  me  once 

repulsive,  inconceivable,  that  1 

Y  to   the 

You  reduce  me  to 

tiably  childish !     But, 


1 

THE  FIRST  EFFORT  AFTER  FREEDOM.  125 

my  love,  have  I  to  remind  you  that  you  and  I  are  plighted, 
and  that  I  am  an  honourable  man  ?" 

"  I  know  it,  1  feel  it,  release  me !"  cried  Clara. 

Sir  Willoughby  severely  reprehended  his  shortsighted- 
ness for  seeing  but  the  one  proximate  object  in  the  par- 
ticular attention  he  had  bestowed  on  Miss  Dale.  He  could 
not  disavow  that  they  had  been  marked,  and  with  an  object, 
and  he  was  distressed  by  the  unwonted  want  of  wisdom 
through  which  he  had  been  drawn  to  overshoot  his  object. 
His  design  to  excite  a  touch  of  the  insane  emotion  in  Clara's 
bosom  was  too  successful,  and,  "  I  was  not  thinking  of  her," 
he  said  to  himself  in  his  candour,  contrite. 

She  cried  again  :  "  Will  you  not,  Willoughby  ? — release 
me  ?" 

He  begged  her  to  take  his  arm. 

To  consent  to  touch  him  while  petitioning  for  a  detach- 
ment, appeared  discordant  to  Clara,  but,  if  she  expected 
him  to  accede,  it  was  right  that  she  should  do  as  much  as 
she  could,  and  she  surrendered  her  hand  at  arm's  length, 
disdaining  the  imprisoned  fingers.  He  pressed  them  and 
said :  "  Doctor  Middleton  is  in  the  library.  I  see  Vernon  is 
at  work  with  Crossjay  in  the  West-room — the  boy  has  had 
sufficient  for  the  day.  Now,  is  it  not  like  old  Vernon  to 
drive  his  books  at  a  cracked  head  before  it's  half-mended  ?" 

He  signalled  to  young-  Crossjay,  who  was  up  and  out 
through  the  folding  windows  in  a  twinkling. 

"  And  you  will  go  in,  and  talk  to  Vernon  of  the  lady  in 
question,"  Sir  Willoughby  whispered  to  Clara.  "Use  your 
best  persuasions  in  our  joint  names.  You  have  my  warrant 
for  saying  that  money  is  no  consideration ;  house  and  income 
are  assured.  You  can  hardly  have  taken  me  seriously  when 
I  requested  you  to  undertake  Vernon  before.  I  was  quite 
in  earnest  then  as  now.  I  prepare  Hiss  Dale.  I  will  not  have 
a  wedding  on  our  wedding-day :  but  either  before  or  after 
it,  I  gladly  speed  their  alliance.  1  think  now  1  give  you 
the  best  proof  possible ;  and  though  I  know  that  with 
women  a  delusion  may  be  seen  to  be  groundless  and  still  be 
cherished,  I  rely  on  your  good  sense." 

Vernon  was  at  the  window  and  stood  aside  for  her  to 
enter.  Sir  Willoughby  used  a  gentle  insistance  with  her. 
She  bent  her  head  as  if  she  were  stepping  into  a  cave.  So 
frigid  was  she,  that  a  ridiculous  dread  of  calling  Mr.  Whit- 


Till  '  . 


only  present  nnxiety  -when  Si* 
\.  .1  the  window  on  them. 


CHAPTEB  XIV. 

WILLOl  GHB*   AND   I..1TITIA. 


"I  M  ISS  Dale." 

-  :    Willoughby   thonght   of  his   promise  to  Clara.      He 
with  young  Ci  ,  and   then  sent   the  1 

and  wrapped   himself  in   meditation.     So  shall  you 
my  a  statue  of  statesmen  -who  have  died  in 
;  |  heir  country. 

In   the    hundred    and    fourth    chapter  of   the   thirteenth' 
Booh  of   Egoism,  it  is   written:  Possession 
o  lite  object  possesse  I  approaches  felicity. 
It   ie   the   rarest   condition  of  ownership.     Fur  example: 
on  of  land  is  not  without  obligation  both   to  the 
.  the  tax-collector ;   the  possession  of  fine  clothing  is 
by     obligation:     gold,     jewelry,    works     of    art, 
bold  Furniture,  are  positive  :  the  pos- 

a  wife  we  find  surcharged  with  obligation.     In  all 
11  is  a  gentle  term  for  enslavemi 
Felicity  attained  to  by  the  helol  drunk. 
.  the  pride,  the  intoxication  of  posses- 
no       •     "ill. 

sion,  and  that  the  most 

&  •  a  shadow  of  obliga- 

r  if  L;'i\  ing,  giving  only 

aui  vol  re  respecl  I,  by   foi-m  of 

iation,    if    you     like;     unconscious    poral 

■   cess  For  the  sysh 
Female's    worship,   is   this 

hardly     I  asou  other 

•    yov   continue 
,  utional  ei 
roar:  a  ;  supply. 


SIR  W1LL0UGHBY  AND  L-ETITIA.  127 

ing  spirit  to  your  matter,  while  at  the  same  time  presenting 
matter  to  your  spirit,  verily  a  comfortable  apposition.  The 
Gods  do  bless  it. 

That  they  do  so  indeed  is  evident  in  the  men  they  select 
for  such  a  felicitous  crown  and  aureole.  Weak  men  would 
be  rendered  nervous  by  the  flattery  of  a  woman's  worship  ; 
or  they  would  be  for  returning  it,  at  least  partially,  as 
though  it  could  be  bandied  to  and  fro  without  einulgence  of 
the  poetry ;  or  they  would  be  pitiful,  and  quite  spoil  the 
thing.  Some  would  be  for  transforming  the  beautiful  soli- 
tary vestal  flame  by  the  first  effort  of  the  multiplication- table 
into  your  hearth-fire  of  slippered  affection.  So  these  men 
are  not  they  whom  the  Gods  have  ever  selected,  but  rather 
men  of  a  pattern  with  themselves,  very  high  and  very  solid 
men,  who  maintain  the  crown  by  holding  divinely  indepen- 
dent of  the  great  emotion  they  have  sown. 

Even  for  them  a  pass  of  danger  is  ahead,  as  we  shall  see 
in  our  sample  of  one  among  the  highest  of  them. 

A  clear  approach  to  felicity  had  long  been  the  portion  of 
Sir  Willoughby  Patterne  in  his  relations  with  Lrctitia  Dale. 
She  belonged  to  him;  he  was  quite  unshackled  by  her.  She 
was  everything  that  is  good  in  a  parasite,  nothing  that  is 
bad.  His  dedicated  critic  she  was,  reviewing  him  with  a 
favour  equal  to  perfect  efficiency  in  her  office;  and  whatever 
the  world  might  say  of  him,  to  her  the  happy  gentleman 
could  constantly  turn  for  his  refreshing  balsamic  bath.  She 
flew  to  the  soul  in  him,  pleasingly  arousing  sensations  of 
that  inhabitant ;  and  he  allowed  her  the  right  to  fly,  in  the 
manner  of  kings,  as  we  have  heard,  consenting  to  the  privi- 
leges acted  on  by  cats.  These  may  not  address  their 
Majesties,  but  they  may  stare;  nor  will  it  be  contested  that 
the  attentive  circular  eyes  of  the  humble  domestic  creatures 
are  an  embellishment  to  Royal  pomp  and  grandeur,  such 
truly  as  should  one  day  gain  for  them  an  inweaving  and 
figurement — in  the  place  of  bees,  ermine  tufts,  and  their 
various  present  decorations — upon  the  august  great  robes 
back-flowing  and  foaming  over  the  gaspy  page-boys. 

Further  to  quote  from  the  same  volume  of  The  Book: 
fhere  is  pain  in  the  surrendering  of  that  we  are  fain  to 
relinquish. 

The  idea  is  too  exquisitely  attenuate,  as  are  those  of  the 
whole  body-guard  of  the    heart  of  Egoism,    and  will  slip 


'Ill 

'!    li.-r  [e  a  study  of  the 

ond  seel  :'>n~  of  The 
will  ta  ap  i"   senility  ;  or  you   m 

into  the  pages,   perchance;  or   an 
,  iem.     There  was  once  a  venerable  gentleman 

■  i.-  cop  <>f  his  nose,  langhing 

i  i  ed    himself   to  it  in    the  end,   and 

tpparil  ion.     It  does  no!   concern 

was  i  I   on   his  c  :e  and  lifs 

thai  he  i    fine  thing,  bnt   not  so  fine  as 

,  bove;  which  has  been  between  the  two  e; 

ighl    in   marriage. 
hi  ii  may  have  been  a  ghostly  hair 
bnt  for  us  it  is  a   i 
profitably  imitate  him  in  his 

0  it. 

by  Pat!  ly  in  the  pursuit  of 

I  conple)  to  casi    .Miss   Dalo 

;       j       i  der  that  he  was  not  simply,  so  to  speak, 

as  casting  her   for  a  man  to 

i  this  was  :i   much   greater  trial   than  it  had 

.  w  hen  she  went  over  bump  to 

I",i  of  i    husband,  there  was  no  know- 

}he  mighl  her  soul's  fidelity.     It   had 

tch    the    project    of    the    conjunction; 

iitu;  lint    he  winced  and  smarted  on 

1  •  L  his  idea  of  Loetitia. 

a  change  in  her  fortune,  her 

;eless,  he,  for  t  lie  sake  of 

I    to    kt  bwo    serviceable   persons 

nd,  mighl    resolve  to  join   them.     The 

.    w  it  li  it  a  certain  pallid  con. 

lally  faithless  woman;    no  wonder   be 

.  and  opened  Li  on  the  score! 

.  and  tic  able  wiles  of  that 

e,  who  runs   for  life.     She   is 

But  close  it. 

nil    having  been   doi  By  by  men,  men 

-    wisdom,   and 
Eor   the  confusion   of 
h   like   sombre  gold)# 
I  his  undertaking. 


SIR  WILLOUGHBY  AND  L.ETITIA.  129 

An  examination  of  Lastitia's  faded  complexion  braced  him 
very  cordially. 

His  Clara  jealous  of  this  poor  leaf  ! 

He  could  have  desired  the  transfusion  of  a  quality  or  two 
from  Laetitia  to  his  bride  ;  but  you  cannot,  as  in  cookery, 
obtain  a  mixture  of  the  essences  of  these  creatures ;  and  if, 
as  it  is  possible  to  do,  and  as  he  had  been  doing  recently 
with  the  pair  of  them  at  the  Hall,  you  stew  them  in  one  pot, 
you  are  far  likelier  to  intensify  their  little  birth-marks  of 
individuality.  Had  they  a  tendency  to  excellence,  it  might 
be  otherwise ;  they  might  then  make  the  exchanges  we  wish 
for ;  or  scientifically  concocted  in  a  harem  for  a  sufficient 
length  of  time  by  a  sultan  anything  but  obtuse,  they  might. 
It  is  however  fruitless  to  dwell  on  what  was  only  a  glimpse 
of  a  wild  regret,  like  the  crossing  of  two  express  trains  along 
the  rails  in  Sir  Willoughby's  head. 

The  ladies  Eleanor  and  Isabel  were  sitting  with  Miss 
Dale,  all  three  at  work  on  embroideries.  He  had  merely 
to  look  at  Miss  Eleanor.  She  rose.  She  looked  at  Miss 
Isabel,  and  rattled  her  chatelaine  to  account  for  her  depar- 
ture. After  a  decent  interval  Miss  Isabel  glided  out.  Such 
was  the  perfect  discipline  of  the  household. 

Sir  Willoughby  played  an  air  on  the  knee  of  his  crossed 
leg. 

Laetitia  grew  conscious  of  a  meaning  in  the  silence.  She 
said,  "  You  have  not  been  vexed  by  affairs  to-day  ?  " 

"  Affairs,"  he  replied,  "  must  be  peculiarly  vexatious  to 
trouble  me.  Concerning  the  country  or  my  personal 
affairs  ?  " 

"  I  fancy  I  was  alluding  to  the  country." 

"  I  trust  I  am  as  good  a  patriot  as  any  man  living,"  said 
he  ;  "  but  I  am  used  to  the  follies  of  my  countrymen,  and  we 
are  on  board  a  stout  ship.  At  the  worst  it's  no  worse  than 
a  rise  ic  rates  and  taxes  ;  soup  at  the  Hall-gates,  perhaps  ; 
license  to  fell  timber  in  one  of  the  outer  copses,  or  some 
dozen  loads  of  coal.     You  hit  my  feudalism." 

"  The  knight  in  armour  has  gone,"  said  -Lastitia,  "  and  the 
castle  with  the  draw-bridge.  Immunity  for  our  island  has 
gone  too  since  we  took  to  commerce." 

"  We  bartered  independence  for  commerce.  You  hit  our 
old  controversy.  Ay,  but  we  do  not  want  this  overgrown 
population !     However,  we  will  put  politics  and  sociology 

K 


1  I! 

(  their  i  is  words  aside.     Ton 

been,  I    will  not   say  annoyed, 

I  iuch  to  do,  an  ig  into  Parliament 

t  helpless  it  I  a.     Von  know 

lie  lias  ?  •.  fame,  and  bachelor's 

;  a  chop-hou  I  i  he  resi  ol  it." 

thinking   differently    in    the    matter   of 

she  flnshed,  an  i  ashame  I  of  the  flush,  frowned. 

||.  to  her   with  the   perusing  earnestness  of  a 

kbonl  to  trifle. 
"1  end  that  frown?" 

"I  rn?" 

•■ 

«  I 

are  me  ?  " 
MWil  -    I  can." 

\  me  him.     With  no  woman  on  earfL  u;J  I.e 

dl  to  himself  seigneur  and  da  ineold 

he  did    with    Laetitia   Dale      Ho  aid   not 

riod  revived,  but  reserved  it  jarde^  to  stray 

mood    for  displaying  elegance  and 

in  the  a    lady  ;  and  in  speei  a    Leet  it  ia 

She  was  nut  devoid  of  grace 

Would  she  j  e  her  beautiful  responsiveness   to  his 

Eitherto  she  had,  and   for  .  and  quite 

l.     But  f  her  as  a  married  woman?    Gar  souls  are 

ie  conditions  of  our  animal  nature!     A 
mother,  it  was  within  sober  calculation  that 
could  be  great  changes  in  her.      And  the  nint  of  any 
a   total  change  to  one  of  the  lofty   order 
C  llled  on  to  relinquish  possession  insl 
.  &  11  or  nothin 
N\  ■  if  ther<  of  the  marriage-tie  effecting 

'i    of  her  character  or   habit  of  mind, 
ilerably  hardened  spinster  ! 

t  I       hand  in  Y  ernon's  for 
itely  that  the  injury  then  done 

sen-it  iveir  SS    had    sic  1 

e   of   two   or  three  successive 


SIR  WILLOUGHBY  AND  L.ETITIA.  131 

anniversaries  of  his  coming  of  age.  Nor  had  he  altogether 
yet  got  over  the  passion  of  greed  for  the  whole  group  of  the 
well-favoured  of  the  fair  sex.  which  in  his  early  youth  had 
made  it  bitter  for  him  to  submit  to  the  fickleness,  not  to  say 
immodest  fickleness,  of  anv  handsome  one  of  them  in  vieldinsf 
her  hand  to  a  man  and  suffering  herself  to  be  led  away. 
Ladies  whom  he  had  only  heard  of  as  ladies  of  some  beauty, 
incurred  his  wrath  for  having  lovers  or  taking  husbands.  He 
was  of  a  vast  embrace ;  and  do  not  exclaim,  in  covetousness  ; 
— for  well  he  knew  that  even  under  Moslem  law  he  could  not 
have  them  all  ; — but  as  the  enamoured  custodian  of  the  sex's 
purity,  that  blushes  at  such  big  spots  as  lovers  and  husbands > 
and  it  was  unbearable  to  see  it  sacrificed  for  others.  With- 
out their  purity  what  are  they  ! — what  are  fruiterer's  plums  ? 
— unsaleable.     0  for  the  bloom  on  them  ! 

"As  I  said,  I  lose  my  right  hand  in  Vernon,"  he  resumed, 
"  and  I  am,  it  seems,  inevitably  to  lose  him,  unless  we  con- 
trive to  fasten  him  down  here.  I  think,  my  dear  Miss  Dale, 
you  have  my  character.  At  least,  I  should  recommend  my 
future  biographer  to  you — with  a  caution,  of  course.  You 
would  have  to  write  selfishness  with  a  dash  under  it.  I  can- 
not endure  to  lose  a  member  of  my  household — not  under 
any  circumstances  ;  and  a  change  of  feeling  to  me  on  the  pat  fc 
of  any  of  my  friends  because  of  marriage,  I  think  hard.  I 
would  ask  you,  how  can  it  be  for  Vernon's  good  to  quit  an 
easy  pleasant  home  for  the  wretched  profession  of  Literature? 
— wretchedly  paying,  I  mean,"  he  bowed  to  the  authoress. 
"Let  him  leave  the  house,  if  he  imagines  he  will  not  har- 
monize with  its  young  mistress.  He  is  queer,  though  a  good 
fellow.  But  he  ought,  in  that  event,  to  have  an  establish- 
ment. And  my  scheme  for  Vernon — men,  Miss  Dale,  do  not 
change  to  their  old  friends  when  they  marry — my  scheme, 
which  would  cause  the  alteration  in  his  system  of  life  to  be 
barely  perceptible,  is  to  build  him  a  poetical  little  cottage, 
large  enough  for  a  couple,  on  the  borders  of  my  park.  I 
have  the  spot  in  my  eye.  The  point  is,  can  he  live  alone 
there  ?  Men,  I  say,  do  not  change.  How  is  it  that  we  can- 
not say  the  same  of  women  ?  " 

Lastitia  remarked  :  "  The  generic  woman  appears  to  have 
an  extraordinary  faculty  for  swallowing  the  individual.'' 

"As  to  the  individual,  as  to  a  particular  person,  I  may  be 
wrong.     Precisely  because   it   is    her   case  I  think  of,  ray 

k2 


. 


■  he  fear:    unworthy  of  both,  no 

i-    to  the  source.     Even   pure  friendship, 

.      .  Lin  1  of  jealousy  ;  though  I 

and  near  me,  happy  and 

my  I,;  a  with  her  incomparable  social 

H,t  1  d  erically,  re." 

the  honour  t<-  allude  to  me,  Sir  Willoughby," 

I  am  my  fi  3  housemai< 

;•  would  take  that  for  a  refusal  ?     He  would 

third  in  the  house  and  a  sharer  of  your  affectionate 

|  tly,    why   not?      And    I    may    be   arguing 

own  happiness  :  it  may  be  the  end  of  me  !  " 

■•  i  >K1  friends  are  captious,  exacting.     jSTo,  not  the  end. 

1  lie  same  to  me,  it  is  the  end  to  that 

hip:  not  to  the  degree  possibly.     But  when 

L  to  the  form  !     And  do  you,  in  i  s  application  to 

friendship,   scorn   the   word   'user1'     We  are  creatures   of 

i,  I   con  a    poltroon  in  my  affections;    I 

The   shadow  of  the  tenth  of  an  inch  in  the 

vation  of  an   eyelid! — to  give  you  an  idea  of 

ibility.     And,  my  dear  Miss  Dale,  I  throw  myself 

on  your  charity,  with  all  my  weakness  bare,  let  me  add,  as  I 

i  to  none   but  you.     Consider,  then,  if  I   lose  you! 

:•   is  due  to  my  pusillanimity  entirely.     High-souled 

v  be  wives,  mothers,  and  still  reserve  that  home 

<  •  ■!.     They   can  and   will  conquer  the  viler  con- 

human  life.     Our  states,  I  have  always  contended, 

phases  have  to  be  passed  through,  and  there  is 

ace   in   it  so  long  as  they  do  not  levy  toll  on  the 

al,  the  spiritual  element.      You  understand  me  ? 

in  these  abstract  elucidations." 

cself  clearly,"  said  Lsetitia. 

pretended  that  psychology  was  my  forte," 

y  overshadowed  by  her  cold  commendation:  he 

-itive  to  the  fractional  divisions  of 

,:  were,  a  melody  with  which 

i    of  tune  that  did  not  modestly  or  mutely 

•  lelody  in  your  person  is  incom- 

thau   ihe  best  of  touchstones  and 

"Your  father's   health  has    im* 

■ 


SIR  WILLOUGHBY  AND  L^TITIA.  133 

"  He  did  not  complain  of  his  health  when  I  saw  him  this 
morning.  My  cousin  Amelia  is  with  him,  and  she  is  an 
excellent  nurse." 

"  He  has  a  liking  for  Vernon." 

"  He  has  a  great  respect  for  Mr.  Whitford." 

"  You  have  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  yes  ;  I  have  it  equally." 

"  For  a  foundation,  that  is  the  surest.  I  would  have  the 
friends  dearest  to  me  begin  on  that.  The  headlong  match 
is  ! — how  can  we  describe  it  ?  By  its  finale.  I  am  afraid. 
Vernon's  abilities  are  really  to  be  respected.  His  shyness  is 
his  malady.  I  suppose  he  reflected  that  he  was  not  a 
capitalist.  He  might,  one  would  think,  have  addressed 
himself  to  me ;  my  purse  is  not  locked." 

"  No,  Sir  Willoughby !  "  La?titia  said  warmly,  for  his 
donations  in  charity  were  famous. 

Her  eyes  gave  him  the  food  he  enjoyed,  and  basking  in 
them,  he  continued : 

"  Vernon's  income  would  at  once  have  been  regulated 
commensurately  with  a  new  position  requiring  an  increase. 
This  money,  money,  money !  But  the  world  will  have  it  so. 
Happily  I  have  inherited  habits  of  business  and  personal 
economy.  Vernon  is  a  man  who  would  do  fifty  times  more 
with  a  companion  appreciating  his  abilities  and  making 
light  of  his  little  deficiencies.  They  are  palpable,  small 
enough.  He  has  always  been  aware  of  my  wishes  : — when 
perhaps  the  fulfilment  might  have  sent  me  off  on  another 
tour  of  the  world,  home-bird  though  I  am  !  When  was  it 
that  our  friendship  commenced  ?  In  my  boyhood,  I  know. 
Very  many  years  back." 

"  I  am  in  my  thirtieth  year,"  said  Lcetitia. 

Surprised  and  pained  by  a  baldness  resembling  the  deeds 
of  ladies  (they  have  been  known,  either  through  absence  of 
mind,  or  mania,  to  displace  a  wig)  in  the  deadly  intimacy 
which  slaughters  poetic  admiration,  Sir  Willoughby  punished 
her  by  deliberately  reckoning  that  she  did  not  look  less. 

"Genius,"  he  observed,  "is  unacquainted  with  wrinkles  :  " 
hardly  one  of  his  prettiest  speeches  ;  but  he  had  been 
wounded,  and  he  never  could  recover  immediately.  Coming 
on  him  in  a  mood  of  sentiment,  the  wound  was  sharp.  He 
could  very  well  have  calculated  the  lady's  age.     It  was  the 


in  i]    r. 

■i  of  it  upon  his  low 
. 

.  dral-clock  on  tlie  mantel- 
il]   on  the   law  d   before   dinner, 
ip  her  ■  lery  work. 

!.  ••  inn  aot  needlewomen." 

"I  shall]  ■       a<    die  Oi    the  pen  if  it  stamps  me  an 

■  plied. 
II  1    a    compliment   on   her   truly   exceptional 

\>  when  the  player's  finger  rests  in  distraction 
:      as  without  measure  and  disgusted  his  own 

he  had  been  so  good  as  to  dimii 

"ii  thai  the  marriage  of  a  lady  in  her  thirtieth 

a   Vi    aon  would  be  so  much  of  a  loss  to 

parading  the  lawn,  now  and  then  casting 

window  of  the  room  where  his  Clara  and 

-chemes  he  indulged  for  his 

:i  and  '  Lings  of  the  moment  were  in 

3  that  to  which  we  hear  orchestral 

their   instruments   under   the    pro. 

is  not  ]  t,  l>ut  it  promises  to  he  so 

-.  which  have  their  dulcimers  ever 

h.     We  arc  mortals,  attaining  the  celestial 

through  a    mere  of  pain.     Some  degree  of 

to  Sir  Willoughby,  otherwise  he  would 

ronting  him.     He   grew, 

incline!]   to  Laetitia  once  more,  so  far  as 

bin  hi:  ■  For  conversation   she  -would  be  a 

A     ;  this   valuable  wife  he  was  presenting 

duration  of  the  conference  of 
-in  required  strong  persuasion 
| 


UTIlIi  XV. 

TTTE  PETITK  A  RELEASE. 


'  the  i  lid-day  tahle. 

I   with  .Miss  Dale  on  :al  matters, 


THE  PETITION  FOR  A  RELEASE. 


luO 


like  a  good-natured  giant  giving  a  child  the  jump  from 
stone  to  stone  across  a  brawling  mountain  ford,  so  that  an 
unedified  audience  might  really  suppose,  upon  seeing  her 
over  the  difficulty,  she  had  done  something  for  herself.  Sir 
Willoughby  was  proud  of  her,  and  therefore  anxious  to 
settle  her  business  while  he  was  in  the  humour  to  lose  her. 
He  hoped  to  finish  it  by  shooting  a  word  or  two  at  Vernon 
before  dinner.  Clara's  petition  to  be  set  free,  released  from 
him,  had  vaguely  frightened  even  more  than  it  offended  his 
pride. 

Miss  Isabel  quitted  the  room. 

She  came  back,  saying,  "They  decline  to  lunch." 

"  Then  we  may  rise,"  remarked  Sir  Willoughby. 

"  She  was  weeping,"  Miss  Isabel  murmured  to  him. 

"  Girlish  enough,"  he  said. 

The  two  elderly  ladies  went  away  together.  Miss  Dale, 
pursuing  her  theme  with  the  Rev.  doctor,  was  invited  by 
him  to  a  course  in  the  library.  Sir  Willoughby  walked  up 
and  down  the  lawn,  taking  a  glance  at  the  West-room  as  he 
swung  round  on  the  turn  of  his  leg.  Growing  impatient, 
he  looked  in  at  the  window  and  found  the  room  vacant. 

Nothing  was  to  be  seen  of  Clara  and  Vernon  during  the 
afternoon.  Near  the  dinner-hour  the  ladies  were  informed 
by  Miss  Middleton's  maid  that  her  mistress  was  lying  down 
on  her  bed,  too  unwell  with  headache  to  be  present.  Young 
Crossjay  brought  a  message  from  Vernon  (delayed  by  birds' 
eggs  in  the  delivery),  to  say  that  he  was  off  over  the  hills, 
and  thought  of  dining  with  Dr.  Corney. 

Sir  Willoughby  despatched  condolences  to  his  bride.  He 
was  not  well  able  to  employ  his  mind  on  its  customary  topic, 
being,  like  the  dome  of  a  bell,  a  man  of  so  pervading  a  ring 
within  himself  concerning  himself,  that  the  recollection  of  a 
doubtful  speech  or  unpleasant  circumstance  touching  him 
closely,  deranged  his  inward  peace;  and  as  dubious  and 
unpleasant  things  will  often  occur,  he  had  great  need  of  a 
worshipper,  and  was  often  compelled  to  appeal  to  her  for 
signs  of  antidotal  idolatry.  In  this  instance,  when  the 
need  of  a  worshipper  was  sharply  felt,  he  obtained  no  signs 
at  all.  The  Rev.  doctor  had  fascinated  Miss  Dale  ;  so  that, 
both  within  and  without,  Sir  Willoughby  was  uncomforted. 
His  themes  in  public  were  those  of  an  English  gentleman; 
horses,  dogs,  game,  sport,  intrigue,  scandal,  politics,  wine3, 


Til  :  3T. 

mrtnlv  tTirm.^  ;    with  a  i  lension  to  ladies' tattle, 

racy  .  Whai  interest  could 

lily  take  in  the  Athenian  Theatre  and  bhe  girl  wl 

|  I  ing  the  nightingale, 

k  audience!     lie  would  have  suspected  a 

:  in   Miss    Dale's  eager  attentiveness,  if  the   motive 

■  been  conceived.       Besides,  the  ancients  were  not 

-;  they  did  not,  as  we  make  our  i lerns  do,  write 

ii  hi.. I  at   tlit;   dinner- table  to  interrupt 

M  i.ldl. 

will   do   wisely,   I    think,  sir,    by   confining 
;  edil  ion  of  i '  ics." 

"Tl   it,"  replied  Dr.  Middleton,  "is  the  observation  of  a 
of    the    dictionary    of   classical   mythology    in    the 

is  a  matter  of  climate,  sir.     Tou  will  grant 
• 

3  come  of  climate,  it  is  as  you  say,  sir." 
"  •  ■  a        itter  of  painful  fostering,  or  the 

.  of  it,"  Baid   Miss  Dale,  with  a  question  to  Dr.  Middle- 
-   Sir   Willonghby,   as   though   he   had  been  a 
ce  of  the  flow  of  their  dialogue. 

•    and    Isabel,    previously    excellent 

arned  talk,  saw  the  necessity  of  coming  to 

;     but    you    cannot    converse    with    your   aunts, 

ii-  house,  on  general  subjects  at  table;    the 

!    his  discomposure;  he  considered  that  he 

ill-chosen     bis    father-in-law;    that   scholars   are   an 

ag  or  youngish  women  are  devo 

y  form,  and  will  be  a  d  by  a  scholar  for 

:  man;  concluding  that  he  must  have  a  round 

.  i  specially   ladies,  apprecial  ing 

isit.     Clara's  headache  above,  and 

annerliness below,  affected  his  instincts 

him  apprehend  thai  a  stroke  of  misfortune 

_';    thunder  was   in   the  air.     Still  he  iearnt 

ithii  which  he  i  profit  subsequently.     The 

v   the  doctor  from  his  classics;  it  was 

A  Btrong  aity  of  taste  was  discovered 

sanest  upon  particular  wines 

one  another  by  naming  great 

md  if  Sir  Willoughby  had  to  sacrifice 


THE  PETITION  FOR  A  RELEASE.  1C7 

the  ladies  to  the  topic,  he  much  regretted  a  condition  of 
things  that  compelled  him  to  sin  against  his  habit,  for  the 
sake  of  being  in  the  conversation  and  probing  an  elderly 
gentleman's  foible. 

Late  at  night  he  heard  the  house-bell,  and  meeting  Vernon 
in  the  ball,  invited  him  to  enter  the  laboratory  and  tell  him 
Dr.  Corney's  last.  Vernon  was  brief  ;  Corney  bad  not  let 
ily  a  single  anecdote,  be  said,  and  lighted  his  candle. 

"  By  the  way,  Vernon,  you  had  a  talk  with  Miss 
Middleton  ?  " 

"  She  will  speak  to  you  to-morrow  at  twelve." 

"  To-morrow  at  twelve  ?  " 

"  It  gives  her  four  and  twenty  hours." 

Sir  Willoughby  determined  that  his  perplexity  should  be 
seen  ;  but  Vernon  said  good  night  to  him,  and  was  shooting 
up  the  stairs  before  the  dramatic  exhibition  of  surprise  had 
yielded  to  speech. 

Thunder  was  in  the  air  and  a  blow  coming.  Sir  Willoughby 's 
instincts  were  awake  to  the  many  signs,  nor,  though  silenced, 
were  they  hushed  by  his  harping  on  the  frantic  excesses  to 
which  women  are  driven  by  the  passion  of  jealousy.  He 
believed  in  Clara's  jealousy  because  he  really  had  intended 
to  rouse  it ;  under  the  form  of  emulation,  feebly.  He  could 
not  suppose  she  bad  spoken  of  it  to  Vernon.  But  as  for  the 
seriousness  of  her  desire  to  be  released  from  her  engage- 
ment, that  was  little  credible.  Still  the  fixing  of  an  hour 
for  her  to  speak  to  bim  after  an  interval  of  four  and  twenty 
hours,  left  an  opening  for  the  incredible  to  add  its  weight  to 
the  suspicious  mass  :  and  who  would  have  fancied  Clara 
Middleton  so  wild  a  victim  of  the  intemperate  passion  !  lie 
muttered  to  himself  several  assnageing  observations  to  excuse 
a  young  lady  half-demented,  and  rejected  them  in  a  lump 
for  their  nonsensical  inapplicability  to  Clara.  In  order  to 
obtain  some  sleep,  he  consented  to  blame  himself  slightly,  in 
the  style  of  the  enamoured  historian  of  erring  Beauties 
alluding  to  their  peccadilloes.  He  had  done  it  to  edify  her. 
Sleep,  however,  failed  him.  That  an  inordinate  jealousy 
argued  an  overpowering  love,  solved  his  problem  until  he 
tried  to  fit  the  proposition  to  Clara's  character.  He  had 
discerned  nothing  southern  in  her.  Latterly,  with  the 
blushing  Day  in  prospect,  she  had  contracted  and  fr<  v,  n. 
There  Avas  no  reading  either  of  her  or  the  mvsterv. 


TB  [ST. 

•   fche  bi  '  ible,  a  confession  of 

epting  Miss   1  >ale  and    1  h: 

a    w  ink.      "  J,    sir,"    i  he  doctor 

.  ••  alepl    like    a    lexicon   in   your 

Whitford  and  I  b  of  it.'' 

\.  A\  mentioned  thai  ho  had  been  writing 

I  lit. 

-."    Sir  Willonghby  reproved 
[  make  it  a   principle  to  get  throngh 

: 

d  her  father  f<  iptom  of  ridicule.      He 

matic  worker.     She  was  unable  to 

would    have  in   him   an  ally  or  a  jndge. 

ared.      Now  thai   she   had   embraced  the 

the  division  of  the  line  where  she  stood  from 

here  the   world    places   girls    who   are   affianced 

ild  hardly  be  with  her;  it  had  cone  too 

:  i  t  he  would   certainly  take  her  to  be 

.  maddish  whim  ;  he  would  not  try  to  understand 

station  of  a   disarrangement  of 

had   been  by  miracle  contrived  to  run 

d  of  itself  rank   him  against   her;  and   with 

w  of  her,  he  might  behave  like  a 

How  could  she  defend  herself  before  him  ? 

Sir  Willonghby,  her  tongue  made  ready, 

•rt  to  prompt  it;   but  to  her  father 

ild   imagine    herself    opposing    only   dumbness   and 

'..  ind  of  work,"  she  said. 
warded  her  with  a  bush]  eyebrow's  beam 

iur  ai  the  baronet's  notion  of  work, 
ded  to  quicken  her  that  she  sunned  her- 

:  i  i'-  eyes  to  stay  with   1 
Id,  and  beginning  to  hope  he  mighi  be  won 
■  she  had  been  more  in  the  wrong 
thai  is,  her  error  in  not  earlier 

ed    Sir  Willonghby, 
1  of  opinion.     "My  poor  work  is  for 

; .   for  the  day   to  come.      1 

r  t lie  preservation  of  health,  as  the 

I 


THE  PETITION  FOK  A  RELEASE.  139 

"  Of  continued  work  :  there  I  agree  with  yon,"  said  Dr. 
lliddleton  cordially. 

Clara's  heart  sank ;  so  little  "was  needed  to  deaden  her. 

Accuse  her  of  an  overweening  antagonism  to  her  betrothed; 
vet  remember  that  though  the  "words  had  not  been  uttered 
to  give  her  good  reason  for  it,  nature  reads  nature  ;  captives 
may  be  stript  of  everything  save  that  power  to  read  their 
tyrant;  remember  also  that  she  was  not,  as  she  well  knew, 
blameless  ;  her  rage  at  him  was  partly  against  herself. 

The  rising  from  table  left  her  to  Sir  Willoughby.  She 
Bwam  away  after  Miss  Dale,  exclaiming,  "  The  laboratory  ! 
Will  you  have  me  for  a  companion  on  your  walk  to  see  your 
father  ?  One  breathes  earth  and  heaven  to-day  out  of  doors. 
Isn't  it  Summer  with  a  Spring  -  breeze  ?  I  will  wander 
about  your  garden  and  not  hurry  your  visit,  I  promise." 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  indeed.  But  I  am  going  imme- 
diately," said  Lretitia,  seeing  Sir  Willoughby  hovering  to 
snap  up  his  bride. 

"  Yes  ;  and  a  garden-hat  and  I  am  on  the  march." 

"  I  will  wait  for  you  on  the  terrace." 

"  You  will  not  have  to  wait." 

"  Five  minutes  at  the  most,"  Sir  Willoughby  said  to 
La?titia,  and  she  passed  out,  leaving  them  alone  together. 

"  Well,  and  my  love !  "  he  addressed  his  bride  almost 
hnggingly ;  "  and  what  is  the  story  ?  and  how  did  you 
succeed  with  old  Vernon  yesterday  ?  He  will  and  he  won't  ? 
He's  a  very  woman  in  these  affairs.  I  can't  forgive  him  for 
giving  you  a  headache.     You  were  found  weeping." 

"  Yes,  I  cried,"  said  Clara. 

"  And  now  tell  me  about  it.  You  know,  mv  dear  erirl, 
whether  he  does  or  doesn't,  our  keeping  him  somewhere  in 
the  neighbourhood — perhaps  not  in  the  house — that  is  the 
material  point.  It  can  hardly  be  necessary  in  these  days  to 
urge  marriages  on.  I'm  sure  the  country  is  over  .... 
Most  marriages  ought  to  be  celebrated  with  the  funeral 
knell  !  " 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Clara. 

"It  will  come  to  this,  that  marriages  of  consequence,  and 
none  but  those,  will  be  hailed  with  joyful  peals." 

"  Do  not  say  such  things  in  public,  Willoughby." 

"  Only  to  you,  to  you  !  Don't  think  me  likely  to  expose 
mvself    to    the    world.       Well,    and    I   sounded  Miss   Dale, 


TI  T. 

will  be  no  violent  cle.       And     now     about 

•  !  •  .  Willoughb;  n   I   return  from 

•tli  Mi-s  hair,  bood  after  twelve." 
he. 
"i  .  ,!•.      Ii    •  childish.     I   can  explain  it. 

I    cannot    deny,  because  I    am  a  rather 
■i   perhaps,  and   have  it  prescribed  to  me  to 
lin  length  of  time.     I  may  tell 
At.  WTiitford   is  not  to  be  persuaded   by 
ment  would  not  induce 
lin." 

I  ords ? " 

dng  of  our  engagement!'      Come  into  the 

'  ,  my  1"'. 

••   I    -iiall   IMl    have  til:. 

"  ]  p  rather  than  interfere  with  our  conversa- 

1  Tl  ang  .  .  .  .  !'  but  it's  a  sort  of  sacrilege 

I  it." 

it  has  to  be  spoken  of." 

Wny  ?      I   can't   conceive   the  occasion. 

know,  to  m<-  a,  plighted  faith,  the  afliancing  of 

.  is  a   piece  of  religion.     I   rank   it   as    holy   as 

it  is  holier;  I  really  cannot  tell  you 

i  1  to  you  in  your  bosom  to  understand 

I  of  divorces  with  comparative  indifference. 

en  couples  who  have  rubbed  off  all  ro- 

i 

Sh<  1  him    in  her  fit  of  ironic  iciness,  on 

him  thus  blindly  challenge  her  to  speak  out,  whether 
•_rht  be  his  piece  of  religion. 
!!•  I  the  more  anwarlike  .-entiments  in  her  by 

lei  them  go  their   several    ways. 

■   in   the  category  of  the 

Tint  1 1 .  he  breaking  of  an  engage- 

Oh !  " 

Cli  ith   a    swan's  note  swelling 

il  imit  him  to  dolorousness illimitable. 

'   it  be   now.      Do  not  speak 

My  head  may  not  be  clear  by-and- 

eyoi  d    my  endurance. 


THE  PETITION  FOR  A  RELEASE.  141 

I  am  penitent  for  the  wrong  I  have  done  you.  I  grieve  for 
you.  All  the  blame  is  mine.  Willoughby,  you  must  release 
me.  Do  not  let  me  hear  a  word  of  that  word  ;  jealousy  is 
unknown  to  me  ....  Happy  if  I  could  call  you  friend  and 
see  you  with  a  worthier  than  I,  who  might  by-and-by  call 
me  friend !  You  have  my  plighted  troth  ....  given  in 
ignorance  of  my  feelings.  Reprobate  a  weak  and  foolish 
girl's  ignorance.  I  have  thought  of  it,  and  I  cannot  see 
wickedness,  though  the  blame  is  great,  shameful.  You  have 
none.  You  are  without  any  blame.  You  will  not  suffer  as 
I  do.  You  will  be  generous  to  me  ?  I  have  no  respect  for 
myself  when  I  beg  you  to  be  generous  and  release  me." 

"  But  this  was  the  .  .  .  .  "  Willoughby  preserved  his 
calmness,  "  this,  then,  the  subject  of  your  interview  with 
Vernon  ?  " 

"  I  have  spoken  to  him.  I  did  my  commission,  and  1 
spoke  to  him." 

"  Of  me  ?  " 

"  Of  myself.  I  see  how  I  hurt  you ;  I  could  not  avoid  it. 
Yes,  of  you,  as  far  as  we  are  related.  I  said  I  believed  you 
would  release  me.  I  said  I  could  be  true  to  my  plighted 
word,  but  that  you  would  not  insist.  Could  a  gentleman 
insist  't  But  not  a  step  beyond ;  not  love  ;  I  have  none. 
And,  Willoughby,  treat  me  as  one  perfectly  worthless  ;  I 
am.  I  should  have  known  it  a  year  back.  I  was  deceived 
in  myself.     There- should  be  love." 

"  Should  be  !  "  Willoughby 's  tone  was  a  pungent  com- 
ment on  her. 

"Love,  then,  I  find  I  have  not.  I  think  I  am  antagonistic 
to  it.  What  people  say  of  it  I  have  not  experienced.  I  find 
I  was  mistaken.  It  is  lightly  said,  but  very  painful.  You 
understand  me,  that  my  prayer  is  for  liberty,  that  I  may 
not  be  tied.  If  you  can  release  and  pardon  me,  or  promise 
ultimately  to  pardon  me,  or  say  some  kind  word,  I  shall 
know  it  is  because  I  am  beneath  you  utterly  that  I  have 
been  unable  to  give  you  the  love  you  should  have  with  a 
wife.  Only  say  to  me,  go !  It  is  you  who  break  the  match, 
discovering  my  want  of  a  heart.  What  people  think  of  me 
matters  little.     My  anxiety  will  be  to  save  you  annoyance." 

She  waited  for  him  :  he  seemed  on  the  verge  of  speaking. 

He  perceived  her  expectation;  he  had  nothing  but  clown- 


I  !'2  TH]  I 

*    within,  and  his  dignity  counselled  him  to  dis. 

bis  head,  li  i  oriental  palm  whose  shade  is 

n  bl  the  perfervid  wanderer  below,  smiling  gravely, 

:ing  his  dignity  what  he  could  say  to 

al  this  mad  young  woman  a  bitterly  com- 

What    lO  think,  hung  remoter.      The 

him  first. 

th  her  h  threw   the   door   wide  open, 

1,  with  countless  blinkings:  "In  the  laboratory  we 

rrnpted.     1  was  at  a  loss  to  guess  where  that  most 

uii]'  m  the  senses  came  from.    They  are  always 

h    the   nose.      I  mean,  the  remainder  of 

Perhaps    I    satirized   them  too  smartly — if 

the  letters.      When  they  are  not  'calculating.' 

Mori  usive   than   debris  of  a  midnight  banquet!      An 

Ami  tour  is  instructive,  though  not  so  romantic.     Xot 

Italy,  I  mean.      Let  us  escape." 

SI  From    his    arm.      She   had  scattered  his 

it    was   pitiable:   hut  she  was   in  the  torrent  and 

!•  a  pause  or  a  change  of  place. 

"  !t  m  i-t    be  here;  one  minute  more — I  cannot  go  else- 

wh(  in.     Speak   to    me   here;    answer    my 

word.     If  you  forgive   me,  it  will  be 
•i.     Km ,  release  n 

ly,"  he  rejoined,  "tea-cups  and  coffee-cups, bread- 
s-shells, caviare,  butter,  beef,  bacon!     Can  we? 
■  m  re<  !. 

ii  I  will  go  for  my  walk  with  Miss  Dale.     And  you 
will  me  when  I  return  ?  " 

STou  shall  go  with  Miss  Dale.     But, 
i'.'   my  love!     S  -ly,  where  are   we?     One  h< 

.   Now,]  never  quarrel.    It  is  a  character- 

And  you  speak  of  me  to  my  cousin  Vernon  ! 

ly,  plighted  faith  signifies  plighted  faith,  as  much  as 

""  i  iron  to  hold  by.     Some  little  twist  of  the 

To    Vernon,  of  all   men!      Tnsh!    she    has  been 

of   perfection,  and  the  comparison  is 

I  i   her   Willoughby.     But,  my  Clara,  when  I 

thai  bride  is  b  ide,  and  you  are  mine,  mine ! " 

ty,  you  mei  I    them. — those  separations  of 


THE  PETITION  FOR  A  RELEASE.  143 

two  married.     Yon  said,  if  they  do  not  love  ....  Oh  !  say, 
is  it  not  better  ....  instead  of  later  ?  " 

He  took  advantage  of  her  modesty  in  speaking-  to  exclaim: 
"  Where  are  we  now  ?  Bride  is  bride,  and  wife  is  wife,  and 
affianced  is,  in  honour,  wedded.  You  cannot  be  released.  We 
are  united.  Recognize  it :  united.  There  is  no  possibility 
of  releasing  a  wife  !  " 
"  Not  if  she  ran  ? 

This  was  too  direct  to  be  histrionically  misunderstood. 
He  had  driven  her  to  the  extremity  of  more  distinctly 
imagining  the  circumstance  she  had  cited,  and  with  that 
cleared  view  the  desperate  creature  gloried  in  launching 
such  a  bolt  at  the  man's  real  or  assumed  insensibility  as 
must,  by  shivering  it,  waken  him. 

But  in  a  moment  she  stood  in  burning  rose,  with  dimmed 
eyesight.  She  saw  his  horror,  and  seeing  shared  it ;  shared 
just  then  only  by  seeing  it;  which  led  her  to  rejoice  with 
the  deepest  of  sighs  that  some  shame  was  left  in  her. 

"  Ran  ?  ran  ?  ran  ?  "  he  said  as  rapidly  as  he  blinked. 
"  How  ?  where  ?  what  idea  ?...." 

Close  was  he  upon  an  explosion  that  would  have  sullied 
his  conception  of  the  purity  of  the  younger  members  of  the 
sex  hauntingly. 

That  she,  a  young  lady,  maiden,  of  strictest  education, 
should,  and  without  his  teaching,  know  that  wives  ran  ! — 
know  that  by  running  they  compelled  their  husbands  to 
abandon  pursuit,  surrender  possession! — and  that  she  should 
suggest  it  of  herself  as  a  wdfe ! — that  she  should  speak  of 
running  ! — 

His  ideal,  the  common  male  Egoist  ideal  of  a  waxwork 
sex  would  have  been  shocked  to  fragments  had  she  spoken 
further  to  fill  in  the  outlines  of  these  awful  interjections. 

She  was  tempted:  for  during  the  last  few  minutes  the  fire 
of  her  situation  had  enlightened  her  understanding  upon  a 
subject  far  from  her  as  the  ice-fields  of  the  North  a  short 
while  before  ;  and  the  prospect  offered  to  her  courage  if  she 
would  only  outstare  shame  and  seem  at  home  in  the  doings 
of  wickedness,  was  his  loathing  and  dreading  so  vile  a  young 
woman.  She  restrained  herself  ;  chiefly,  after  the  first 
bridling  of  maidenly  timidity,  because  she  could  not  bear  to 
lower  the  idea  of  her  sex  even  in  his  esteem. 


T!  T. 

n.     She  had   thoughts  ot  flying  out  to 
!  of  tn; 
.1  on  her  situation  hurriedly  askance: 

•  ■    -    in  be  disentangled  from  an 
hat  mnst  it  be  to  poor  women  seeking  to  be 

it,  Sir  Willoughby  might  have  learnt  that 
•  iniquitously  wise  of  the  things  of  this  world 
as   I  instinct,  ronsed  to  the  intemperateness  of 

ling  with  fetters,  had  made  her  appear  in 
apon,  indicated  moreover  by  him. 
k   up  the  old  broken  vow  of  women  to  vow  it 
bo  any  man  will  I  give  my  hand.' 
Sir  Willoughby:   "I  have  said  all.  I  cannot 
3aid." 

■  in  the  e.     Vernon  entered. 

Pi  s*  them,  lie  stated  his  mission  in  apology :  "Dr. 

a  book   in   this   room.       I   see   it ;    it's   a 

"Ha!  by  the  way,  a  book;  books  -would  not  be  left  .here 

:  lure,  with  my  compliments  to  Dr. 

who    may    do   as    he    p]  .    i  hough    seriously 

aid  Sir  Willoughby.     "  Come  away  to  the 

1  It's  a  comment  on  human   beings  that 

er  they  have  been    there's  a  mess,  and  you  admirers 

ivided   a   sickly  nod  between  Vernon  and  the 

t    table,    "'must   make    what   you  can   of   it. 

1 

ted  that  she  was  engaged  to  walk   with  Miss 

Dale  is  waiting  in  the  hall,"  said  Vernon. 

I  ing,"  said  Clara. 
;    with  Hale:    walk   with    Miss   Dale,"   Sir 

'-'•d'\  ssingly.     "I  will  beg  her  to  wait 

Yon   shall   find  her  in  the  hall  when 
a. 
be  bell  and  went  out. 

our  confidence;  she  is  quite  trust- 

■  ne  step,"  she  replied. 

in     a    posil    in    of    your    own 
,  you  d      a  to  escape 


THE  PETITION  FOR  A  RELEASE.  145 

you  must  make  up  your  mind  to  pitched  battles,  and  not  be 
dejected  if  you  are  beaten  in  all  of  them  ;  there  is  your  only 
chance." 

"  Not  my  choosing ;  do  not  say  choosing,  Mr.  Whitford. 
I  did  not  choose.  I  was  incapable  of  really  choosing.  I 
consented." 

"  It's  the  same  in  fact.     But  be  sure  of  what  you  wish." 

"Yes,"  she  assented,  taking  it  for  her  just  punishment 
that  she  should  be  supposed  not  quite  to  know  her  wishes. 
"  Tour  advice  has  helped  me  to-day." 

"  Did  I  advise  ?  " 

"  Do  you  regret  advising  ?  " 

"  I  should  certainly  regret  a  word  that  intruded  between 
you  and  him." 

"  But  you  will  not  leave  the  Hall  yet  ?  You  will  not 
leave  me  without  a  friend  ?  If  papa  and  I  were  to  leave  to- 
morrow, I  foresee  endless  correspondence.  I  have  to  stay  at 
least  some  days,  and  wear  through  it,  and  then,  if  I  have 
to  speak  to  my  poor  father  you  can  imagine  the  effect  on 
him." 

Sir  Willoughby  came  striding  in,  to  correct  the  error  of 
his  going  out. 

"  Miss  Dale  awaits  you,  my  dear.  You  have  bonnet,  hat  ? 
— No  ?  Have  you  forgotten  your  appointment  to  walk  with 
her  ?  " 

"  I  am  ready,"  said  Clara,  departing. 

The  two  gentlemen  behind  her  separated  in  the  passage. 
They  had  not  spoken. 

She  had  read  of  the  reproach  upon  women,  that  they 
divide  the  friendships  of  men.  She  reproached  herself,  but 
she  was  in  action,  driven  by  necessity,  between  sea  and  rock. 
]  )readf  ul  to  think  of  1  she  was  one  of  the  creatures  who  are 
written  about. 


TH  BT. 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

CL.\l:.\    a  \  D    LSTLTIJL 

I\  irable  c  ,  Vernon  had  said  thii 

Middleton  m<  rily  determined  than  Bhe 

n  in  th  with   Sir  Willot  His  counting 

it  for  her  in  all  of  i  hem,  made 

•  slack  in  comparison  with  the 

i    iiuw    animating    her.       Ami    Bhe   could 

vein  thai    Bhe  had  not  chosen;  she  was  too 

ignorai  hoose.     Hi-  had  wrongly  used  that 

I    malicious;    and  to   call   consenting   the 

ring,  was  wilfully  unjust.    Mr.  Whitford 

:it  well;    he  was  conscientious,  very  conscientious.     But 

•  the  hero  descending  from  heaven  bright-sworded 

man's   fetters  off  her   Limbs  and  deliver  her 

■.  iiinir  mouth-abyf  His   logical   coolness  of 

•    lation  with  her  when  Bhe  casl  aside  tin-  silly  mission 

I   t"  her  by   Sir  Willoughby  and  wept  for  herself, 

rtion  to  it^  praiseworthiness.     Hi'  had 

•  i  her  to  d  ■  thing  she  wished  done,  stipulating 

hould   !"•  a  pause  "!'  four  and   t  w< 
I  ir  her  to  ••  of  it   before  she  proceeded  in  the 

elf.     Of  consolation  there  had  not 

-        '    '  I    :  1 1  r  i     t  lie    lasl     inan    to    give    advice 

had  by  qo  means  astonished   him 

on  raim-  out.     It  came  out.  she  knew  not 

i   ii]>   to   by   his  declining  the  idea  of  mar- 

her  cong  m  on  his  exemption  from 

bul  memory  v*  i  dull  to  revive 

of  broken  la  when  Bhe 

dire  misconduct.      Th  1  sman 

carcely  a   friend.     Ho  could  look  mi   her 

hing  her.     Sip  h    I    -  lothed   her 

ted  in  her  bosom  to  dash 

ight.     She   neverthe 

hi     transparent 

;     his    air    of 

mch,  hut  why  plead  your  case  to 


CLAItA  AND  KEITH  A.  147 

me  ?"  And  his  recommendation  to  her  to  be  qnite  sure  she 
did  know  what  she  meant,  was  a  little  insulting.  She 
exonerated  him  from  the  intention ;  he  treated  her  as  a  girl. 
By  what  he  said  of  Miss  Dale,  he  proposed  that  lady  for 
imitation. 

"  I  must  be  myself  or  I  shall  be  playing  hypocrite  to  dig 
my  own  pitfall,"  she  said  to  herself,  while  taking  counsel 
with  Lastitia  as  to  the  route  for  their  walk,  and  admiring  a 
becoming-  curve  in  her  companion's  hat. 

Sir  Willoughby,  with  many  protestations  of  regret  that 
letters  of  business  debarred  him  from  the  pleasure  of  accom- 
panying them,  remarked  upon  the  path  proposed  by  Miss 
Dale  :  "  In  that  case  you  must  have  a  footman." 

"  Then  we  adopt  the  other,"  said  Clara,  and  they  set  forth. 

"Sir  Willoughby,"  Miss  Dale  said  to  her,  "is  always  in 
alarm  about  our  unprotectedness." 

Clara  glanced  up  at  the  clouds  and  closed  her  parasol. 
She  replied,  "  It  inspires  timidity." 

There  was  that  in  the  accent  and  character  of  the  answer 
which  warned  La^titia  to  expect  the  reverse  of  a  quiet 
chatter  with  Miss  Middleton. 

"  You  are  fond  of  walking  ?"     She  chose  a  peaceful  topic. 

"  Walking  or  riding ;  yes,  of  walking,"  said  Clara.  "  The 
difficulty  is  to  find  companions." 

"  We  shall  lose  Mr.  Whitf ord  next  week." 

"  He  goes  ?  " 

"  He  will  be  a  great  loss  to  me,  for  I  do  not  ride,"  Lastitia 
replied  to  the  off-hand  inquiry. 

"  Ah  !  " 

Miss  Middleton  did  not  fan  conversation  when  she  simply 
breathed  her  voice. 

Laetitia  tried  another  neutral  theme. 

"  The  weather  to-day  suits  our  country,"  she  said. 

"  England,  or  Patterne  Park  ?  I  am  so  devoted  to  moun- 
tains that  I  have  no  enthusiasm  for  flat  land." 

"  Do  you  call  our  country  flat,  Miss  Middleton  ?  We  have 
undulations,  hills,  and  we  have  sufficient  diversity,  meadows, 
rivers,  copses,  brooks,  and  good  roads,  and  pretty  by-paths." 

"  The  prettiness  is  overwhelming.  It  is  very  pretty  to 
see;  but  to  live  with,  1  think  1  prefer  ugliness.  I  can 
imagine  learning*  to  love  ugliness.  It's  honest.  However 
young  you  are,  you  cannot  be  deceived  by  it.     These  parks 

l2 


1  { -  TB  T. 

prettiness.     I  would  rather 
I 

ightful  green  walks, paths  through 

lit  of  way  for  the  public." 

should  1  Dale,  wondering ;  and  Clara 

1    chafe   at    restraint;    hedges  and   palings  every- 

Id    have  t<>  travel    ten  years   to   sit   down 

•  fortifications.     <)f  course  I  can  read 

us  rich  kind  of  English  country  with  pleasure  in  poetry. 

>  require  poetry.     What  would  you  say 

airing  it  ?  " 

ompanionable  but  that  the  haze  of 
e  i 1 1 1 j >i< »\ es  the  view." 
■•  Then  yon  do  know  thai  you  arc  the  wisi 
Lfletitia  raised  her  dark  eyelashes;    she  Bought  to  under- 
I.  She  could  only  fancy  she  did ;  and  if  she  did,  it  meant 
thai  Bliss  Middle tou  thought  her  wise  iu  remaining  single. 
Clara   was   full    of    a    sombre    preconception    that    her 
'  '  had  been  hinted  to  .M  isa  I  'ale. 

■   V..;  knew   Miss  Durham  ?"  she  said. 
••  No!  inl  imately." 

j  mi  know  me  ?  " 

''  1 1  v  more  of  her  ?  " 

.id  with  me." 
MOh!   M        Dale,  I  would  no!  be  r<  served  with  you." 

thrill  of   the   voi<  d    Lsetitia  to  steal  a  look. 

1  bright,  and  she  had  the  readiness  to  run 

ken:    otherwise  she   did   not 

i    will    never  allow   any  of  these  noble  trees   to  be 
ddleton." 

ban  decay,  do  you  not  think  ?  " 
"1  t.;  ir influence  will  be  great  and  always  used  to 

Miss  I  'ale  ?     I  have  begged  a  favour  this 
in  the  j 
d,  bui  Clara's  face  was  more  significant. 

"Whal  ?  "  1(  m    I.atitia's   lips. 

je    herself,    Clara   had   answered: 


CLAKA  AND  L.ETITIA.  149 


In  another  and  higher  tone  Laetitia  said  :  "  What  ?  "  and 
she  looked  round  on  her  companion ;  she  looked  in  doubt 
that  is  open  to  conviction  by  a  narrow  aperture,  and  slowly 
and  painfully  yields  access.  Clara  saw  the  vacancy  of  her 
expression  gradually  filling  with  woefulness. 

"  I  have  begged  him  to  release  me  from  my  engagement, 
Miss  Dale." 

"  Sir  Willoughby  ?  " 

"  It  is  incredible  to  yon.  He  refuses.  Ton  see  I  have  no 
influence." 

"  Miss  Middleton,  it  is  terrible  !  " 

"  To  be  dragged  to  the  marriage  service  against  one's 
will?     Yes." 

"  Oh  !     Miss  Middleton." 

"  Do  you  not  think  so  ?  " 

"  That  cannot  be  your  meaning." 

"  You  do  not  suspect  me  of  trifling  ?  Yon  know  I  wonld 
not.     I  am  as  much  in  earnest  as  a  mouse  in  a  trap.  ' 

"  No,  you  will  not  misunderstand  me  !  Miss  Middleton, 
such  a  blow  to  Sir  Willoughby  would  be  shocking,  most 
cruel !     He  is  devoted  to  you." 

"  He  was  devotpd  to  Miss  Durham." 

"  Not  so  deepty  :  differently." 

"  Was  he  not  very  much  courted  at  that  time  ?  He  is 
now  ;  not  so  much  :  he  is  not  so  young.  But  my  reason  for 
speaking  of  Miss  Durham  was  to  exclaim  at  the  strangeness 
of  a  girl  winning  her  freedom  to  plunge  into  wedlock.  Is  it 
comprehensible  to  you  ?  She  flies  from  one  dungeon  into 
another.  These  are  the  acts  which  astonish  men  at  our 
conduct,  and  cause  them  to  ridicule  and,  I  daresay,  despise  us." 

"  But,  Miss  Middleton,  for  Sir  Willoughby  to  grant  such 
a  request,  if  it  was  made  .  .   .  .  " 

"It  was  made,  and  by  me,  and  will  be  made  again.  I 
throw  it  all  on  my  unworthiness,  Miss  Dale.  So  the  county 
will  think  of  me,  and  quite  justly.  I  would  rather  defend 
him  than  myself.  He  requires  a  different  wife  from  any- 
thing I  can  be.  That  is  my  discovery ;  unhappily  a  late 
one.  The  blame  is  all  mine.  The  world  cannot  be  too  hard 
on  me.  But  I  must  be  free  if  1  am  to  be  kind  in  my  judge- 
ments even  of  the  gentleman  I  have  injured." 
'•  So  noble  a  gentleman !  "  Lrctitia  sighed. 
"  I  will  subscribe  to  any  eulogy  of  him,"  said  Clara,  with 


I  Hi    EGOIST. 

thought  the  ] ibility  of  a  lady  expe- 

iii  him  like  Lsetitia  taking  him  for  noble.     "He  has 

ble  air.      I  ■    sincerely,  thai    your  appreciation  of 

bis  Dobilil  Eer  feeling  of  opposition  to  Sir 

Willonghby  pnshed   ber  to  this  extravagance,  gravely  per- 

L:i utia.    •'  And  it  is,"  added  Clara,  as  if  to  snpport 

what  she  had  said,  "a  withering  rebuke  to  me ;  I  know  him 

less,  at  least  have  no!  had  bo  long  an  experience  of  him." 

a  pondered  on  an  obscurity  in  these  words  which 
would  have  accused  her  thick  intelligence  but  for  a  glimmer 
it    threw    on  v   most   obscure  communication.      She 

ed   it   might    be,  strange   though   it  seemed,  jealousy,  a 
shade   of   jealousy  affecting   Miss   Middleton,  as  had  been 
lely  intimated  by  Sir  Willoughby  when  they  were  wait- 
ing  in   the  hall.      "A   little   feminine   ailment,  a  want  of 
tension    of   a   perfect   friendship;"    those  were  his 
words  to  her:  and  he  suggested  vaguely  that  care  must  be 
■  n  i  he  eulogy  of  her  friend, 
esoh  ed  to  be  explicit . 
••  I  have  not  said  that  I  think  him  beyond  criticism,  Miss 
Middleton." 
"Noble?" 

"  He    has    faults.      "When  Ave  have   known   a  person   for 

-  the  faults  come  out,  but  custom  makes  light  of  them; 

and  I  suppose  we  feel  flattered  by  seeing  what  it  would  be 

to  be  blind    to!     A  very   little  flatters   us! — Now, 

do  you  not  admire  that  view  ?     It  is  my  favourite." 

Clara    gazed  over  rolh'ng  richness  of  foliage,  wood  and 

and  church   spire,  a  town   and  horizon  hills.     There 

-k  y-lark. 

■■  Not  even  the  bird   thai   does  not  fly  away  ! "  she  said; 

no  I n -art  for  the  bird  satisfied  to  rise  and 

•   ■  in  t  his  place. 

I-    titia    travelled   to   Borne  notion,    dim  and  immense,  of 

Middleton's  fever  of  distaste.     She  shrank  from  it  in 

of  dread  lest  it  might  be  contagious  and  rob   her  of 

ion   of  the  homely  picturesque; 

her  by   saying:  "For  your  sake   I  could 

it  ...  .  in  time:    or   some   dear   old    English  scene. 

•  .   .  this  ....  this  change  in  me,  I  find   I 

irate  landscape  from  itions.     Now  I  learn 

youth  ifors.     I   have   grown  years   older  in  a  week. — 


CLARA  AND  KETITIA.  151 

Miss  Dale,  if  lie  were  to  give  me  my  freedom  ?  if  he  were  to 
cast  me  off  ?  if  lie  stood  alone  ?  " 

"  I  should  pity  him." 

"  Him — not  me  !  Oh  !  right.  I  hoped  you  would  ;  I 
knew  you  would." 

Lartitia's  attempt  to  shift  Miss  Miduleton's  shiftiness  was 
vain ;  for  now  she  seemed  really  listening  to  the  language 
of  jealousy  : — jealous  of  the  ancient  Letty  Dale  ! — and  im- 
mediately before,  the  tone  was  quite  void  of  it. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  but  you  make  me  feel  myself  in  the 
dark,  and  when  I  do  I  have  the  habit  of  throwing  myself 
for  guidance  upon  such  light  as  I  have  within.  You  shall 
know  me,  if  you  will,  as  well  as  I  know  myself.  And  do 
not  think  me  far  from  the  point  when  I  say  I  have  a  feeble 
health.  I  am  what  the  doctors  call  anaemic;  a  rather  blood- 
less creature.  The  blood  is  life,  so  I  have  not  much  life. 
Ten  years  back — eleven,  if  I  must  be  precise,  I  thought  of 
conquering  the  world  with  a  pen  !  The  result  is  that  I  am 
glad  of  a  fireside,  and  not  sure  of  always  having  one  :  and 
that  is  my  achievement.  My  days  are  monotonous,  but  if  I 
have  a  dread,  it  is  that  there  will  be  an  alteration  in  them. 
My  father  has  very  little  money.  We  subsist  on  what 
private  income  he  has,  and  his  pension :  he  was  an  army 
doctor.  I  may  by-and-by  have  to  live  in  a  town  for  pupils. 
I  could  be  grateful  to  any  one  who  would  save  me  from 
that.  I  should  be  astonished  at  his  choosing  to  have  me 
burden  his  household  as  well. — Have  I  now  explained  the 
nature  of  my  pity  ?  It  would  be  the  pity  of  common  sym- 
pathy, pure  lymph  of  pity,  as  Jiearly  disembodied  as  can  be. 
Last  year's  sheddings  from  the  tree  do  not  form  an  attractive 
garland.  Their  merit  is,  that  they  have  not  the  ambition. 
I  am  like  them.  Now,  Miss  Middleton,  I  cannot  make 
myself  more  bare  to  you.     I  hope  you  see  my  sincerity." 

"  I  do  see  it,"  Clara  said. 

"With  the  second  heaving  of  her  heart,  she  cried :  "  See 
it,  and  envy  you  that  humility !  proud  if  I  could  ape  it ! 
Oh  !  how  proud  if  I  could  speak  so  truthfully  true  ! — You 
would  not  have  spoken  so  to  me  without  some  good  feeling 
out  of  which  friends  are  made.  That  I  am  sure  of.  To  be 
very  truthful  to  a  person,  one  must  have  a  liking.  So  I 
judge  by  myself.     Do  I  presume  too  much  ?  " 

Kindness  was  on  Laetitia's  face. 


Ti:  [ST. 

"Bui  now,"  said  Clara,  swimming  on  the  wave  in  her 
|  -l  tax  yon   with   the  silliest  suspicion  ever  enter- 

tained •  '•  rank.     Lady,  you   have  deemed  me 

of    the    meanest    of   our   vices! — Hold   this    hand, 
.   my   friend,  will  you?      Something  is  going  on  in 

Lffltitia  took  her  hand,  and  saw  and  felt  that  something 
og  on* 

i  !lara  said  :»"  Yon  are  a  woman." 

Ii  was  her  effort  to  accounl  i'or  t lie  something. 

She  Bwam  for  a  brilliant  instant  on  tears,  and.  yielded  to 
the  overflow. 

When  they  had  fallen,  she  remarked  upon  her  first  long 
breath  quite  coolly  ;  "  An  encouraging  picture  of  a  rebel,  is 
•t?" 

Her  companion  murmured  to  soothe  her. 

"  It's  little,  it's  nothing,"  said  Clara,  pained  to  keep  her 

They  walked  forward,  holding  hands,  deep-hearted  to  one 
another. 

'•  I  like  this  country  better  now,"  the  shaken  girl  resumed. 

"I  could  lie  down  in  it  and  ask  only  for  sleep.     I  should 

like  to  think  of  you  here.     How   nobly  self-respecting  you 

•  be,  to  speak  as  you  did!     Our  dreams   of  heroes  and 

ild   glitter  beside  the  reality.      I  have   been 

ly  thinking  of  myself  as  an  outcast  of  my  sex,  and   to 

have  a  good  woman  liking  me  a  little  ....  loving?     Oh! 

I.    ■  itia,  my  friend,  I  should  have  kissed  you,  and  not  made 

■  exhibition  of  myself — and  if  you  call  it  hysterics,  woe  to 

I  for  I  hit  my  tongue  to  keep  it  off  when  I  had  hardly 

i,   teeth  together — if  that  idea  of  jealousv 

been  in  your  head.     You  had  it  from  him." 

"•  I  have  not  alluded  to  it  in  any  word  that  I  can  recollect." 

•lie  ran  imagine  no  other   cause  for  my  wish  to   be  re- 

I.     I    have   notieed,  it  is  his  instinct  to  reckon  on  women 

by  their  nature.     T hey  are  the  needles,  and  he 

net.     .lealousy  of  you,  Miss   Dale  1      Lastitia,  may  I 

•  thing  you  please." 
"I  could  \.'^'n  : — Do  you  know  my  baptismal  name?" 

"At  last!     I  could  wish  ....  that  is,  if  it  were  your 


CLARA  AND  L^TITIA.  153 

wish.  Yes,  I  could  wish  that.  Next  to  independence,  my 
wish  would  be  that.  I  risk  offending  you.  Do  not  let  your 
delicacy  take  arms  against  me.  I  wish  him  happy  in  the 
only  way  that  he  can  be  made  happy.  There  is  my  jealousy." 

"  Was  it  what  you  were  going  to  sav  just  now  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  thought  not." 

"  I  was  going  to  say — and  J  believe  the  rack  would  not 
make  me  truthful  like  you,  Laetitia — well,  has  it  ever  struck 
you :  remember,  I  do  see  his  merits ;  I  speak  to  his  faith- 
fullest  friend,  and  I  acknowledge  he  is  attractive,  he  has 
manly  tastes  and  habits ;  but  has  it  never  struck  you  .... 
I  have  no  right  to  ask ;  I  know  that  men  must  have  faults, 
I  do  not  expect  them  to  be  saints ;  I  am  not  one ;  I  wish  I 
were." 

"  Has  it  never  struck  me  ....  ?"     La?titia  prompted  her. 

"  That  very  few  women  are  able  to  be  straightforwardly 
sincere  in  their  speech,  however  much  they  may  desire  to 
be?" 

"  They  are  differently  educated.  Great  misfortune  brings 
it  to  them." 

"  I  am  sure  your  answer  is  correct.  Have  you  ever  known 
a  woman  who  was  entirely  an  Egoist  ?" 

"  Personally  known  one  ?     We  are  not  better  than  men." 

"  I  do  not  pretend  that  we  are.  I  have  latterly  become 
an  Egoist,  thinking  of  no  one  but  myself,  scheming  to  make 
use  of  every  soul  I  meet.  But  then,  women  are  in  the 
position  of  inferiors.  They  are  hardly  out  of  the  nursery 
when  a  lasso  is  round  their  necks;  and  if  tbey  have  beauty,  no 
wonder  they  turn  it  to  a  weapon  and  make  as  many  captives 
as  they  can.  I  do  not  wonder  !  My  sense  of  shame  at  my 
natural  weakness  and  the  arrogance  of  men  would  urge  me 
to  make  hundreds  captive,  if  that  is  being  a  coquette.  I 
should  not  have  compassion  for  those  lofty  birds,  the  hawks. 
To  see  them  with  their  wings  clipped  would  amuse  me.  Is 
there  any  other  way  of  punishing  them  ?" 

"  Consider  what  you  lose  in  punishing  them." 

"  T  consider  what  they  gain  if  we  do  not." 

Lsetitia  supposed  she  was  listening  to  discursive  obser- 
vations upon  the  inequality  in  the  relations  of  the  sexes.  A 
suspicion  of  a  drift  to  a  closer  meaning  had  been  lulled,  and 
the  colour  flooded  her  swiftly  when  Clara  said  :  "Here  is  the 


THK  EGOIST. 

1  lit;  1   am  certain  of  it:  women  who 

iqu  I  tea  mak<   their  c  uot  of  the  best  of 

i  men  who  a  have  good  women  for  their 

:  women  on  whose  devoted  constancy  they  feed  ;  they 

I  am  sure  1  am  nol  taking  the  merely 

i  bey  punish  themselves  too  by  passing  over 

one  Buitable  to  them,  who  could  really  give  them  what 

in  have,  and  they  go  where  they  .  .  .  ."     Clara. 

stopped.     "I  have   not  your  power  to  express  ideas,"  she 

said. 

■'  Miss  Middleton, yon  have  a  dreadful  power,"  said  Laetitia. 
1  smiled   affectionately:  "I   am   not   aware  of  any. 

Whose  cottage  is  this  ?" 

'•  My  lai  hers.     Will  you  not  come  in  ?  into  the  garden  ?" 
i';i  took  note  of  ivied  windows  and  roses  in  the  porch. 
She  i  hanked  Laditia  and  said:  "1  will  call  for  you  in  an 
hour." 

\rc  you  walking  on  the   road   alone,"   said  Laetitia  in- 
credulously,  with  an  eye  to  Sir  Willoughby's  dismay. 

"I   put   my  trust    in   the    highroad,"   Clara  replied,  and 

turned  away,  hut  turned  back  to   Laetitia  and  offered  her 

•  to  he  kissed. 

The   'dreadful  power'   of  this  young  lady  had  fervently 

impressed  Laetitia,  and  in  kissing  her  she  marvelled  at  her 

gentleness  ami  girlishness. 

Clara  walked  on,  unconscious  of  her  possession  of  power 
of  any  kind. 


CIIA  PTER  XVII. 

THE  PORCELAIN  VASE. 


1  '    niN'G  the  term   of   Clara's  walk  with  Laetitia,  Sir  Wil- 
ttby's  shrunken  self-esteem,  Like  a  garment  hung  to  the 

mpestuous  went  hei%  recovered  some 

velvet  pile   in  the   society  of  Mrs. 

Mo  »n,  who  represented  to  him  the  world 

I    tried   to    keep  sunny  for   himself   by  all   the 

id  exercise.     She  expected  him  to  be  the  gay  Sir 


THE  PORCELAIN  VASE-  155 

Willoughby,  and  her  look  being  as  good  as  an  incantation- 
summons,  he  produced  the  accustom  el  sprite,  giving  her 
sally  for  sally.  Queens  govern  the  polite.  Popularity  with 
men,  serviceable  as  it  is  for  winning  favouritism  with  women, 
is  of  poor  value  to  a  sensitive  gentleman,  anxious  even  to 
prognostic  apprehension  on  behalf  of  his  pride,  his  comfort 
and  his  prevalence.  And  men  are  grossly  purchaseable ; 
good  wines  have  them,  good  cigars,  a  goodfellow  air :  they 
are  never  quite  worth  their  salt  even  then  ;  you  can  make 
head  against  their  ill  looks.  But  the  looks  of  women  will 
at  one  blow  work  on  you  the  downright  difference  which  is 
between  the  cock  of  lordly  plume  and  the  moulting.  Happily 
they  may  be  gained  :  a  clever  tongue  will  gain  them,  a  leg. 
They  are  with  you  to  a  certainty  if  Nature  is  with  you  ;  if 
you  are  elegant  and  discreet :  if  the  sun  is  on  you,  and  they 
see  you  shining  in  it ;  or  if  they  have  seen  you  well-stationed 
and  handsome  in  the  sun.  And  once  gained  they  are  your 
mirrors  for  life,  and  far  more  constant  than  the  glass.  That 
tale  of  their  caprice  is  absurd.  Hit  their  imaginations  once, 
they  are  your  slaves,  only  demanding  common  courtier  service 
of  you.  They  will  deny  that  you  are  ageing,  they  will  cover 
you  from  scandal,  they  will  refuse  to  see  you  ridiculous.  Sir 
Willoughby's  instinct,  or  skin,  or  outfloating  feelers,  told  him 
of  these  mysteries  of  the  influence  of  the  sex ;  he  had  as  little 
need  to  study  them  as  a  lady  breathed  on. 

He  had  some  need  to  know  them,  in  fact ;  and  with  him 
the  need  of  a  protection  for  himself  called  it  forth  ;  he  was 
intuitively  a  conjuror  in  self-defence,  long-sighted,  wanting 
no  directions  to  the  herb  he  was  to  suck  at  when  fi^htino"  a 
serpent.  His  dulness  of  vision  into  the  heart  of  his  enemy 
was  compensated  by  the  agile  sensitiveness  obscuring  but 
rendering  him  miraculously  active,  and  without  supposing 
his  need  immediate,  he  deemed  it  -oolitic  to  fascinate  Mrs. 
Mountstuart  and  anticipate  ghastly  possibilities  in  the  future 
by  dropping  a  hint ;  not  of  Clara's  fickleness,  you  may  be 
sure ;  of  his  own,  rather ;  or  more  justly,  of  an  altered  view 
of  Clara's  character.     He  touched  on  the  rogue  in  porcelain. 

Set  gently  laughing  by  his  relishing  humour:  "I  get  nearer 
to  it,"  he  said. 

"  Remember,  I'm  in  love  with  her,"  said  Mrs.  Mountstuart. 

"  That  is  our  penalty." 

"A  pleasant  one  for  you." 


Till,   i  QOIST. 

II.  "  [h  the  '  '  to  be  eliminated  ?" 

.  my  dear  Sir  Willoughby." 

•■  This  ia  bow  -  : — " 

••  |  shall  a  ay  interpretation  that  is  complimentary." 

will  Batisfy  me  of  being  sufficiently  so,  and  so  I 
to  fill  out  the  epigram." 
"Do.     WTial    hurry  is  there?     And  don't  be  misled  by 
tion   to  which  would  be  reasonable  if  you 

. 
of  a  hollow  chamber  of  horrible  reverberation 
within  him  by  t his  remark. 
II  •  hat  it  was  not  always  a  passionate 

admiration  that  held  the  rogue  East;  but  he  muddled  it  in 
the  thick  of  h  .-ions  thunder,  and  Mrs.    Mountstuart 

smili  d  i"  -'  e  bam  slmt  from  the  smooth-flowing  dialogue  into 

imple  reminder  to  the  lover  of  his  luck. 
[all,    the   pitch    of    their    conversation 
• 

"Miss  Dale  is  looking  well,"  he  said. 

ly  :  sh« ght  to  marry,"  said  .Mrs.  Mountstuart. 

lie-  shook  his  head.     "Persuade  her." 

i         !v- .i':: pit- may  have  some  effect." 
II'  ctremely  abstracted.    "  Yes,  it  is  time.    Where 

.  could  recommend  for  her  complement?     She 
now  what  was  missing  before,  a  ripe  intelligence  in  addi- 
tion to  her  happy  disposition — romantic,  you  would  say.     I 
:  think  women  the  worse  for  that." 
\  dash 

alls  it  '  leafag. 

1    have  you  relented  about  your  horse 
Acli 
"  i  him  under  four  hundred." 

Ym  i   forge!    that  his  wife  doles 
him    out   his   money.       You're   a   hard  bargainer,    Sir   Wil- 

I  mean  I  he  price  to  be  prohibitive." 

y    well  is   good   for  hide  and   seek; 

no   rogue   in  ambush.     And  that's 

the  worst  1  j  of  Laetitia  Dale.     An  exaggerated  devo- 

They  say  you're  the  hardest 

e  county  too,  and  I  can  believe  it  ;  for 

at  h  d  your  aim  is  to  g  t  of  everybody. 


THE  PORCELAIN  VASE.  I  £7 

Ton  see  I've  no  leafage,  I  am  perfectly  matter-of-fact, 
bald." 

"  Nevertheless,  my  clear  Mrs.  Mountstuart,  I  can  assure  you 
that  conversing  with  yon  has  much  the  same  exhilarating 
effect  on  me  as  conversing  with  Miss  Dale." 

"  But,  leafage !  leafage !  You  hard  bargainers  have  no 
compassion  for  devoted  spinsters." 

"  I  tell  you  my  sentiments  absolutely." 

"  And  you  have  mine  moderately  expressed." 

She  recollected  the  purpose  of  her  morning's  visit,  which 
was  to  enofacre  Dr.  Middleton  to  dine  with  her,  and  Sir  Wil- 
loughby  conducted  her  to  the  library  door.  "  Insist,"  he 
said. 

Awaiting  her  reappearance,  the  refreshment  of  the  talk 
he  had  sustained,  not  without  point,  assisted  him  to  distin- 
guish in  its  complete  abhorrent  orb  the  offence  committed 
against  him  by  his  bride.  And  this  he  did  through  project- 
ing it  more  and  more  away  from  him,  so  that  in  the  outer 
distance  it  involved  his  personal  emotions  less,  while  obser- 
vation was  enabled  to  compass  its  vastness,  and,  as  it  were, 
perceive  the  whole  spherical  mass  of  the  wretched  girl's 
guilt  impudently  turning  on  its  axis. 

Thus  to  detach  an  injury  done  to  us,  and  plant  it  in  space, 
for  mathematical  measurement  of  its  weight  and  bulk,  is  an 
art ;  it  may  also  be  an  instinct  of  self-preservation  ;  other- 
wise, as  when  mountains  crumble  adjacent  villages  are 
crushed,  men  of  feeling  may  at  any  moment  be  killed  out- 
right by  the  iniquitous  and  the  callous.  But,  as  an  art,  it 
should  be  known  to  those  who  are  for  practising  an  art  so 
beneficent,  that  circumstances  must  lend  their  aid.  Sir 
Willoughby's  instinct  even  had  sat  dull  and  crushed  before 
his  conversation  with  Mrs.  Mountstuart.  She  lifted  him  to 
one  of  his  ideals  of  himself.  Among  gentlemen  he  was  the 
English  gentleman ;  with  ladies  his  aim  was  the  Gallican 
courtier  of  any  period  from  Louis  Treize  to  Louis  Quinze. 
He  could  doat  on  those  who  led  him  to  talk  in  that  character 
— backed  by  English  solidity,  you  understand.  Boast  beef 
stood  eminent  behind  the  souffle  and  champagne.  An  Eng- 
lish squire  excelling  his  fellows  at  hazardous  leaps  in  public, 
he  was  additionally  a  polished  whisperer,  a  lively  dialoguer, 
one  for  witty  bouts,  with  something  in  him — capacity  for  a 
drive  and  dig  or  two — bevond  mere  wit,  as  they  soon   learnt 


TH1  -T. 

|   up  hi-  and  had   ;i   bosom   for  pinking. 

h   for  bis   ideal  of  bimself.      Now,   Clara  not  only 

onded  to  it.  sbe  repelled  it ;  there 

risbing         I    near   her.     He  considerately  o^ 

I  j  in  his  ordinary  calculations;  he  was  a 

i  and  -In'  was  :i  girl  ol   beauty;  but  the  acci- 

of  Ins  ideal,  with  Mrs.  Mountstuart,  on 

.  restored  him  to  lull  com- 

i  of  detachment,  and  he  thrust  her  out,  quite 

himself,  to  contemplate  herdif  d  revolutions. 

Deeply  read  in  tin-  !>•  >« >k  of  Egoism  that  he  was,  he  knew 

the  sentence  :  .1  •  I  pridt   that  strikes  not 

What    was    h  -   to    strike    with  ?      Ten 

.  I.    titia  might  ha  q  the  instrument.     To 

r  now  was  preposterous.      Beside  Clara  she  had 

ber  under  the  springing  bough.     He  tossed 

>  the  very  soul   by  an  ostentatious  decay 

ink  En  o  with  the  blooming  creature  he 

-defence,  by  sotue  agency  or  other. 

M  uart  was  on  the  step  of  her  carriage  when 

the   young    ladies  were   descried  on  a 
ark.   where  the  yellow  creen  of  May-clothed 
■  r  the  brown  ground  of  last  year's  leaves. 
"  Who's  the  cavalier?"  she  inquired, 
'eman  i  1  them. 

No  !  he's  pegging  at  Crossjay,"  quoth  Wil- 

\  ime  out  for  the  boy's  half-hour's 

run  i       s .-.,-,    9pied  Miss  Middleton  and 

ber  at   a    bound.     Vernon   followed  him 
y. 

lli  s  no  cousin,  has  she':''  said   -Mrs.  Mount- 

ly  of  one  son  or  one  daughter  for  generations," 

- 

'  hi  i.  as  if  wealth  had  been  imputed 

•   "  No  male  cousin." 

a  fly  drove  out  of  the  avenue  on  the  circle 

tch  was  driver.     lb-  had  no  rierht 

wrong,  but  he  was  doing  it  under 

and  young  ones,  and 


THE  PORCELAIN  VASE.  l-r>9 

his  deprecating  touches  of  the  hat  spoke  of  these  apologies 
to  his  former  master  with  dog-like  pathos. 

Sir  Willoughby  beckoned  to  him  to  approach. 

"  So  you  are  here,"  he  said.     "  You  have  luggage." 

Flitch  jumped  from  the  box  and  read  one  of  the  labels 
aloud  :  "  Lieut-Colonel  H.  De  Craye." 

li  And  the  colonel  met  the  ladies  ?     Overtook  them  ?" 

Here  seemed  to  come  dismal  matter  for  Flitch  to 
relate. 

He  began  upon  the  abstract  origin  of  it :  he  had  lost  his 
place  in  Sir  Willoughby 's  establishment,  and  was  obliged  to 
look  about  for  work  where  it  was  to  be  got,  and  though  he 
knew  he  had  no  right  to  be  where  he  was,  he  hoped  to  be 
forgiven  because  of  the  mouths  he  had  to  feed  as  a  flyman 
■attached  to  the  railway  station,  where  this  gentleman,  the 
colonel,  hired  him,  and  he  believed  Sir  Willoughby  would 
excuse  him  for  driving  a  friend,  which  the  colonel  was,  he 
recollected  well,  and  the  colonel  recollected  him,  and  he 
said,  not  noticing  how  he  was  rigged  :  "  What !  Flitch  ! 
back  in  your  old  place  ? — Am  I  expected?"  and  he  told  the 
colonel  his  unfortunate  situation  ;  "  Xot  back,  colonel  ;  no 
such  luck  for  me  :"  and  Colonel  De  Craye  was  a  very 
kind-hearted  gentleman,  as  he  always  had  been,  and  asked 
kindly  after  his  family.  And  it  might  be  that  such  poor 
work  as  he  was  doing  now  he  might,  be  deprived  of,  such  ia 
misfortune  when  it  once  harpoons  a  man  ;  you  may  dive, 
and  you  may  fly,  but  it  sticks  in  you,  once  do  a  foolish  thing. 
"  May  I  humbly  beg  of  you,  if  you'll  be  so  good,  Sir  Wil- 
loughby," said  Flitch,  passing  to  evidence  of  the  sad  mishap. 
He  opened  the  door  of  the  fly,  displaying  fragments  of  broken 
porcelain. 

"  But,  what,  what !  what's  the  story  of  this  ?"  cried  Sir 
Willoughby. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  said  Mrs.  Mountstuart,  pricking  up  her 
ears. 

"  It  was  a  vaws,"  Flitch  replied  in  elegy. 

"A  porcelain  vase  !"  interpreted  Sir  Willoughby. 

"China  !"  Mrs.  Mountstuart  faintly  shrieked. 

One  of  the  pieces  was  handed  to  her  inspection. 

She  held  it  close,  she  held  it  distant.  She  sighed  hor- 
ribly. 

"  The  man  had  better  have  hanged  himself,"  said  she. 


i  !.    BOO! 

•h  bestirred  his  misfortun  Lot  features  and  mcm« 

:  inuation  of  the  doleful  narrative. 

•  EJow   did   this  occur  ?"    Sir    Willoughby  peremptorily 
•  I  him. 

tch  appealed   to  his  former  master  for  testimony  that 

]  ;  a  ad  a  careful  driver. 

Willoughby  thundered:  "I  tell  you  to  tell  me  how 

a  drop,  my  lady!  nol  since  my  supper  last  night,  if 
thei  truth  in  me;"   Flitch  implored  succour  of  Mrs. 

I  uart. 
■   Drive  straight,"  she  said,  and  braced  him. 
•  i\ e  was  then  direct. 

mill,  where  the  "Wicker  brook  crossed  the 
1;  iad,    one   of    Hoppner's   waggons,    overloaded   as 

the   horses   uphill,   when    Flitch   drove 

ti  at  an  ace.  am!   saw   himself  between  Hoppner's 

to  a  stand,  and  a  young  lady  advancing:  and  just 

-  his  whip,  the  horses  pull  half  mad. 

Tin-  young  lady  starts  be?und  the  cart,  and  up  jumps  the 

and   to  save  the  young   lady.  Flitcb   dashed   ahead 

save  her.  he  thanked   heaven  for  it,  and  more  when 

i  see  who  the  young  lady  v. 

one  P"  said  Sir  Willoughby,  in  tragic  amaze. 
:it  Flitch. 

•  Very  well,  yon  saved  her,  and  you  upset  the  fly,"  Mrs. 

•    •  uart  jogged  him  on. 

"I!  i'  ir  old   head-k er,  was  a  witness,  my  lady; 

p  the    bank,  and  it's  true — over  the  Hy 

it  shoots  out  against  the  twelfth  mile- 

•j-h  then   was  the  chance  for  it!  for  nobody 

injured,    and  knocked    against   anything   else,    it 

ould  have  flown  all  to  pieces,  so  that  it  took  Bartlett 

■s  to  collect  every  one,  down  to  the  smallest 

and   he  said,   and   I   can't  help  thinking 

If,   thei  a     Providence  in  it,   for   we   all    come 

yon   might   Bay   we  was   made  to  do  as  we 

!!  he  prudent  course  of  walking 

I  of  trusting  his  limbs  again  to  this 
Sir   Willoughby   said   to   Mrs.   Mountstuart ; 
B  lined  :   "  Lucky  that  no  one  was  hurt." 


COLONEL  DE  CTJAYh'.  161 

Poth  of  tliera  eyed  the  nose  of  poor  Fiitch,  and  simulta- 
neously they  delivered  a  verdict  of  '  Humph/ 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  handed  the  wretch  a  half-crown  from 
her  purse.  Sir  Willoughby  directed  the  footman  in  attend- 
ance to  unload  the  fly  and  gather  up  the  fragments  of  porce- 
lain carefully,  bidding  Flitch  be  quick  in  his  departing. 

"  The  colonel's  wedding  present !  1  shall  call  to-morrow," 
Mrs.  Mountstuart  waved  her  adieu. 

"  Come  every  day  ! — Yes,  I  suppose  we  may  guess  the 
destination  of  the  vase."     He  bowed  her  off  :  and  she  cried  : 

"  "Well,  now  the  gift  can  be  shared,  if  you're  either  of  vou 
for  a  division."  In  the  crash  of  the  carriage-wheels  he 
heard  :  "  At  any  rate  there  was  a  rogue  in  that  porcelain." 

These  are  the  slaps  we  get  from  a  heedless  world. 

As  for  the  vase,  it  was  Horace  De  Crave's  loss.  Weddino- 
present  he  would  have  to  produce,  and  decidedly  not  in  chips. 
It  had  the  look  of  a  costly  vase,  but  that  was  no  question  for 
the  moment : — What  was  meant  by  Clara  being  seen  walking 
on  the  high  road  alone  ? — What  snare,  traceable  ad  inferas, 
had  ever  induced  Willoughby  Patterne  to  make  her  the 
repository  and  fortress  of  his  honour ! 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

COLONEL    DE     CRATE. 


Clara  came  along  chatting  and  laughing  with  Colonel  de 
Craye,  young  Crossjay's  hand  under  one  of  her  arms,  and  her 
parasol  flashing ;  a  dazzling  offender ;  as  if  she  wished  to 
compel  the  spectator  to  recognize  the  dainty  rogue  in  porce- 
lain ;  really  insufferably  fair :  perfect  in  height  and  grace  of 
movement;  exquisitely-tressed;  red-lipped,  the  colour  strik- 
ing out  to  a  distance  from  her  ivory  skin :  a  sight  to  set  the 
woodland  dancing,  and  turn  the  heads  of  the  town  ;  though 
beautiful,  a  jury  of  art-critics  might  pronounce  her  not  to  be. 
Irregular  features  are  condemned  in  beauty.  Beautiful 
figure,  they  could  say.  A  description  of  her  figure  and  her 
walking  would  have  won  her  any  praises  :  and  she  wore  a 
dress  cunning  to  embrace  the  shape  and  flutter  loose  about  it, 
in  the  spirit  of  a  Summer's  day.     Calypso-clad,  Dr.  Middletoc 

M 


[led   her.     See   the  silver  birch  in  a  bre 
|  .  .  d  il  is  puffed  to  a  round 

.  ■  ennon,  and  now  gives  the  glimpse  and 

.shim-  of  the  white  stem's  line  within,  now  hurries  overit, 

denying  that  i I  iible,  with  a  ch  dong  th(  ping 

■  U  the  white  peeps  through.     She  had  the  won- 

;1  ,-n-t  of  dressing  to  suit  the  aandthesky.     To-day 

impanionable  with  her  sweet-lighted 

ividly-meaningful  for  pretty,  if  not  of 

rity  for  beautiful.     Millinery  would  tell  us  that 

sin-  wore  a  Kchu  of  thin  while  muslin  I   in  fronl  on  a 

ime  lighl   stuff,  trimmed  with  deep  rose.     She 

rey-silk  parasol,  traced  at  the  borders  with  green 

3  the  arm  devoted  to  ( Jrossjay,  a  length  of 

and   in   thai    hand   a  bunch  of    the  first   long 

These  hues  of  red  rose  and  green  and  pale  green, 

ited  in  the  billowy  white  of  the  dress  imlloon- 

ly,  like  a  yacht  before  the  sail  bendi 

.  hut  Bhe  '■.  like  one  blown  against ;  resembling 

rather  the  day  of  I  th-west  driving  the  clouds,  gallantly 

a;  interfusing  colour  and  varying  in  her 

■  in    laugh  to   > in i li-  and  look  of  settled  pleasure, 

1  ke  t  be  hi  above  I  he  breeze. 

•  Willoughl  he   frequently  had  occasion  to  protest 

:  he  was  a  more  than  commonly  candid 

atleman  in   his  avowed   dislike  of  the  poet's  non- 

:   nut  oneof  those  latterly  terrorized  by 

■  the  J    !  low  into  silent  contempl  ;  a  b<  n- 

timent  thai   may  sleep,  and   has  nol    to  be   defended.     He 

thed  the  fellow,  fought  the  fellow.     Bat  he  was  one  with 

thai   prevailing  thei if  verse,  the  charms  of 

He  was,  to  his   ill-luck,   intensely  susceptible,  and 

men  after  him  to  admire,  bis  admiration  became 

iry.     II"  could   Bee  al    a   glance  thai    Horace  De  Craye 

!  M   if    diddleton.     Horace  was  a  man  of  taste,  could 

do  other  than  admire;  but  how  curious 

forth  of    <  llara    and    Miss   I  >ale,  in  his  own 

mparison  of  them.  Sir  Willoughby  had 
ipprobai  on  of   his   bride's  appi  arance  ! 
"'■  iveighl  to  it  recently. 

ly,  her  having  been 
by  his  friend  Horace,  walking  on 


COLONEL  DE  CRAYE.  lb'3 

the  high  road  without  companion  or  attendant,  increased  a 
sense  of  pain  so  very  unusual  with  him  that  he  had  cause  to 
be  indignant.  Coming  on  this  condition,  his  admiration  of 
the  girl  who  wounded  him  was  as  bitter  a  thing  as  a  man 
could  feel.  Resentment,  fed  from  the  main  springs  of  his 
nature,  turned  it  to  wormwood,  and  not  a  whit  the  less  was 
it  admiration  when  he  resolved  to  chastise  her  with  a  formal 
indication  of  his  disdain.  Her  present  gaiety  sounded  to  him 
like  laughter  heard  in  the  shadow  of  the  pulpit. 

"  You  have  escaped  !"  he  said  to  her,  while  shaking  the 
hand  of  his  friend  Horace  and  cordially  welcoming  him : 
"  My  dear  fellow  !  and  by  the  way,  you  had  a  squeak  for  it, 
I  hear  from  Flitch." 

"  I,  Willoughby  ?  not  a  bit,"  said  the  colonel ;  "  we  get 
into  a  fly  to  get  out  of  it ;  and  Flitch  helped  me  oat  as  well 
as  in,  good  fellow;  just  dusting  my  coat  as  he  did  it.  The 
only  bit  of  bad  management  was  that  Miss  Middleton  had  to 
step  aside  a  trifle  hurriedly." 

"  You  knew  Miss  Middleton  at  once  ?" 

"  Flitch  did  me  the  favour  to  introduce  me.  He  first  pre- 
cipitated me  at  Miss  Middleton's  feet,  and  then  he  introduced 
me,  in  old  oriental  fashion,  to  my  sovereigm." 

Sir  Willoughby 's  countenance  was  enough  for  his  friend 
Horace.  Quarter- Avheeling  to  Clara,  he  said :  "  'Tis  the 
place  I'm  to  occupy  for  life,  Miss  Middleton,  though  one  is 
not  always  fortunate  to  have  a  bright  excuse  for  taking  it  at 
the  commencement." 

Clara  said :  "  Happily  you  were  not  hurt,  Colonel  De 
Crave." 

"  I  was  in  the  hands  of  the  Loves.  Not  the  Graces  ;  I'm 
afraid  ;  I've  an  image  of  myself.  Dear,  no!  My  dear  Wil- 
loughby, you  never  made  such  a  headlong  declaration  as  that 
It  would  have  looked  like  a  magnificent  impulse,  if  the 
posture  had  only  been  choicer.  And  Miss  Middleton  didn't 
laugh.     At  least  I  saw  nothing  but  pity." 

"  You  did  not  write,"  said  Willoughby. 

"  Because  it  was  a  toss  up  of  a  run  to  Ireland  or  here,  and 
I  came  here  not  to  go  there  ;  and  by  the  way,  fetched  a  jug 
with  me  to  offer  up  to  the  Gods  of  ill-luck;  and  they  accepted 
the  propitiation." 

"  Wasn't  it  packed  in  a  box  ?" 

"  No,  it  was  wrapped  in   paper,  ti  show  its  elegant  form 

m  2 


TH 

1  [\  in  the  shop  ;  and  carried  i*  off 

,  ,1   it  t  Middl    ■  d   .it    noon, 

wil 

Willoughbj    knew   bis    friend    Horace's    mood   when  the 

■   him  th  ed  to  ws 

•■  ^  may  happen,"  he  Baid  to  Clara. 

in  faull   I  •  t,"  she  answered. 

"  Flitch  says  the  accid  lurred   ihrough  his  driving 

up  the  bank  to  save  yon  from  the  wheels." 

"Flitch  maj  d  whisper  that  down  the  neck  of  his 

I   Horace  De  Crave.     "  A.nd  then 
h"'  ii 

e  is  that  we  have  a  porcelain  vase  broken. 
;  nol  walk  on  the  road  alone,  Clara.     You  ought 
;  in,  always.     Jt  is  the  rule  here." 

"  I  had  lefl  Miss  Dale  at  the  cottage." 
tight  to  have  had  the  dog 
Would  they  Ii  q  any  protection  to  the  vase?" 

De  ( !raj  e  crowed  cordially. 
'•  I  in   b  raid   not,   Miss  Middleton.     One  must  go  to  the 
for  protection  to  vases;  and  they're  all  in  the   air 
i>ving  their  own  way  with  us,  which  accounts  for  the 
nsion  in  po  and  society,  and  the  rise  in  the  price  of 

cks,    to  prove  it  true,  as  they  tell  us,  that  every 
i         and  a  n  i  r  waul  -  a  mighty  sweeping.     Miss  Dale  looks 
tning,"    said    De   Craye,    wishing    to   divert   Willoughby 
with  sense  as  well  as  nonsense. 
!     re  noi   been  visiting  Ireland   recently,"  said  Sir 
■  v. 

making  acquaintance  with  an  actor  in  an  Irish 

a  drama  cast   in  I  en  island.     "lis  Flitch,  my 

Willoughby,  has  been  and  stirred  the  native  in  me,  and 

m  to  yon  for  the  like  good  office  when  we 

a  number  o  that  you've  not  wrinkled   your 

head  on       al    your  H<  ly.     Take  the  poor  old  dog 

;  I   »me,  will  yon  r      He's  crazed  to  be  at  the  Hall.     I 

Willoughby,  it  would  be  a  good  bit  of  work  to  take  him 

Think  of  it  :  you'll  do  the  popular  thing,  I'm   sure. 

!  thai    Flitch  ought  to  drive  you  from  the 

church-i  i  ■<■  in  luck,  I'd  have  him  drive  me." 

i  drunkard,  Horace." 

is  poor  nose.     Tis  merely  unction  to  the 


COLONEL  DE  CEAYE  1Q'\ 

exile.     Sober  struggles  below.     He  drinks  to  rock  bis  heart, 
because  be  bas  one.     Now  let  me  intercede  for  poor  Flitch." 

"  Not  a  word  of  him.     He  threw  up  his  place." 

"  To  try  his  fortune  in  the  world,  as  the  best  of  us  do, 
though  livery  runs  after  us  to  tell  us  there's  no  being  an 
independent  gentleman,  and  comes  a  cold  day  we  haul  on 
the  metal-button  coat  again,  with  a  good  ha  !  of  satisfaction. 
You'll  do  the  popular  thing.  Miss  Middleton  joins  in  the 
pleading." 

"No  pleading!" 

"  When  I've  vowed  upon  my  eloquence,  Willoughby,  I'd 
bring  you  to  pardon  the  poor  dog  ?" 

"Not  a  word  ot  him!" 

"  Just  one !" 

Sir  Willoughby  battled  with  himself  to  repress  a  state  of 
temper  that  put  him  to  marked  disadvantage  beside  bis 
friend  Horace  in  high  spirits.  Ordinarily  he  enjoyed  these 
fits  of  Irish  of  him,  which  were  Horace's  fun  and  play,  at 
times  involuntary,  and  then  they  indicated  a  recklessness 
that  might  embrace  mischief.  De  Craye,  as  Willoughby 
had  often  reminded  him,  was  properly  Norman.  The  blood 
of  two  or  three  Irish  mothers  in  his  line,  however,  was 
enough  to  dance  him,  and  if  his  fine  profile  spoke  of  the 
stiffer  race,  his  eyes  and  the  quick  run  of  the  lip  in  the 
cheek,  and  a  number  of  his  qualities,  were  evidence  of  the 
maternal  legacy. 

"  My  word  has  been  said  about  the  man,"  Willoughby 
replied. 

"  But  I've  wagered  on  your  heart  against  your  word,  and 
can't  afford  to  lose;  and  there's  a  double  reason  for  revoking 
for  you!" 

"  I  don't  see  either  of  them.     Here  are  the  ladies." 

"You'll  think  of  the  poor  beast,  Willoughby." 

"  I  hope  for  better  occupation." 

"  If  he  drives  a  wheelbarrow  at  the  Hall  he'll  be  happier 
than  on  board  a  chariot  at  large.     He's  broken-hearted." 

"  He's  too  much  in  the  way  of  breakages,  my  dear 
Horace." 

"'Oh!  the  vase!  the  bit  of  porcelain!"  sang  De  Craye. 
"Well,  we'll  talk  him  over  by-and-by." 

"  If  it  pleases  you;  but  my  rules  are  never  amended." 

"  Inalterable,  are  they  ? — like  those  of  an  ancient  people 


166  '"ii:  E00I8T. 

well  have  worn  a  jackel  of  lend  for  the  com- 

:  ad  of  their  boast.     The  I  eauty  of  laws  for  human 

-  their  adaptability  to  new  stitching 

I     lonel    De   Craye  walked   .-it   the  heels  of  his  leader  to 

■  his  bow  to  the  Ladies  Eleanor  and  Isabel. 

Willonghby   had  guessed  the  person  who  inspired  his 

friend  Borace  to  plead  so  pertinaciously  and  inopportunely 

for  the  man  Flitch  ;  and  it  had  not  improved  his  temper  or 

e  of  his  rejoinders;   lie  had  winced  under  the  contrast 

lis  friend  Eorai  y,  laughing,  sparkling,  musical  air 

an  I  manner  with  his  own  stiffness;  and  he  had  seen  Clara's 

.   scanning  the  contrast — lie  was  fatally  driven  to 

Ins  discontentment,  which  did  not  restore  him  to 

•   •..     Id'  would  have  learnt  more  from  what  his  abrupt 

_r  round  of  the  shoulder  precluded  his  beholding.     There 

an   interchange  between    Colonel  De  Craye  and  Miss 

Middleton  ;  spontaneous  on  both  sides.     His  was  a  look  that 

I;  "Ton  were  right;"  hers#:  "Iknewit."     Her  look  was 

calmer,  and  after  the  tirst  instant  clouded  as  bv  wcarifulness 

Ins  was  brilliant,  astonished,  speculative,  and 

admiring,    pitiful:    a   look    that    poised    over    a    revelation, 

called  up  the  hosts  of  wonder  to  question  strange  fact. 

It  had  passed   unseen  by  Sir  Willoughby.     The  observer 

i  lie  one  who  could  also  supply  the  key  of  the  secret. 

I 'ile  had   found    Colonel  De  Craye  in  company  with 

Middleton  at  her  gateway.     They  were  laughing   and 

ether  like  friends  of   old   standing,  De  Craye  as 

I  3  he  could  he:  and  the  Irish  tongue  and  gentlemanly 

an  irresistible  challenge  to  the  opening  steps  of 

familiarity  when  accident  has  broken  the  ice.     Flitch   was 

their  theme;    and:   "Oh!    hut   if  we  go  up   to  Willoughby 

i  in  hand,  and  bob  a  curtsey  to  'm  and  beg  his   pardon 

ter   Flitch,   won'1    lie   melt   to  such  a  pair  of   sup- 

he  will!"'      Miss  Middleton  said  he  would 

De  Craye  wagered   he  would;  he  knew  Wil- 

hby  best.     Miss  Middleton  looked  simply  grave;  away 

of   asserting  the  contrary  opinion   that  tells  of  rueful  ex- 

"  We'll  see,"  said  the  colonel.     They  chatted  like 

dly  discovering   in  one  another  a  common 

mgers.     Can  there  he  an   end  to  it  whea 

prattle,    they   fill   the   minutes,   as 

!  re  violently  to  be  torn  asunder  at  a  coming 


COLONEL  DE  CRAYE.  167 

signal,  and  must  nave  it  out  -while  they  can ;  it  is  a  meeting 
of  mountain  brooks  ;  not  a  colloquy  but  a  chasing,  impossiblo 
to  say  which  flies,  which  follows,  or  what  the  topic,  so  inter- 
linguistic  are  they  and  rapidly  counterchanging.  After 
their  conversation  of  an  hour  before,  Lsetitia  watched  Miss 
Middleton  in  surprise  at  her  lightness  of  mind.  Clara 
bathed  in  mirth.  A  boy  in  a  Summer  stream  shows  not 
heartier  refreshment  of  his  whole  being.  Lastitia  could  now 
understand  Vernon's  idea  of  her  wit.  And  it  seemed  that 
she  also  had  Irish  blood.  Speaking  of  Ireland,  Miss 
Middleton  said  she  had  cousins  there,  her  only  relatives 
"  The  laugh  told  me  that,"  said  Colonel  De  Craye. 

Laatitia  and  Vernon  paced  up  and  down  the  lawn. 
Colonel  De  Craye  was  talking  with  English  sedateness  to 
the  ladies  Eleanor  and  Isabel.  Clara  and  young  Crossjay 
strayed. 

"  If  I  might  advise,  I  would  say,  do  not  leave  the  Hall 
immediately,  not  yet,"  Laatitia  said  to  Vernon. 

"  You  know,  then  ?" 

"  I  cannot  understand  why  it  was  that  I  was  taken  into 
her  confidence." 

"  I  counselled  it." 

"But  it  was  done  without  an  object  that  I  can  see." 

"  The  speaking  did  her  good." 

"  But  how  capricious  !  how  changeful !" 

"  Better  now  than  later." 

"  Surely  she  has  only  to  ask  to  be  released  ? — to  ask 
earnestly  :  if  it  is  her  wish." 

"  You  are  mistaken." 

"  Why  does  she  not  make  a  confidant  of  her  father  ?" 

"  That  she  will  have  to  do.     She  wished  to  spare  him." 

"  He  cannot  be  spared  if  she  is  to  break  the  engagement.*' 

"  She  thought  of  sparing  him  the  annoyance.  Now  there's 
to  be  a  tussle  he  must  share  in  it." 

*'  Or  she  thought  he  might  not  side  with  her?" 

"She  has  not  a  single  instinct  of  cunning.  Y<  u  ,'udge 
her  harshly." 

"  She  moved  me  on  the  walk  out.  Coming  home  I  felt 
differently." 

Vernon  glanced  at  Colonel  De  Crave. 

"  She  wants  good  guidance,"  continued  Lastitia. 
"  She  has  not  an  idea  of  treachery." 


T. 

"Yon  think  so?     It  may  be  true.     But  she  seems  one 

i   of  pa  easily  made  is.     There  is  a 

.1    .  :  [ge   by  ber  way  of   speaking;    that  at 

red  sini  She  does  Dot  practise  concealment. 

will  naturally  find  it  almost  incredible.     The  change  in 

Budden,  so  wayward,  is  unint   iligible  to  me.     To  me 

of  a  creature  untamed.     He  may  hold  her 

:•  w ord  and  be  just Lfied." 

"  Lei  1 1  in»  look  out  if  he  docs  !" 

mIb  in  .t  thai  harsher  than  anything  I  have  said  of  her  ?" 

"  I'm  nol   appointed  to  praise  her.      I  fancy  I  read  the 

•  of  opposition  of  temperaments.     V.'o 

person  quite  suited  to  us;   it  strikes  us  in 

b." 

"  That  they  are  not  suited  to  us  ?     Oh,  no;    that  comes  by 

'•  Fes,  but  the  accumulation  of  evidence,  or  sentience,  it' 
you  like,  is  combustible;  we'don't  command  the  spark:  it 
be  late  in  falling.     And  you  argue  in  her  favour.     Con- 
sider her  as   a  generous  and  impulsive  girl,  outwearied  at 
la   • 

ty  what 

anything;  by  his  loftiness,  if  you  like.     lie  flies  too 
hiirh  for  her,  we  will  say." 
Sir  Willoughbj  an  eagle?" 
"  She  may  be  ( ired  of  his  eyrie." 

word  in  Vernon's  mouth  smote  on  a  con- 

i.e  had  of  his  full  grasp  of  Sir  Willougbby,  and 

I    knowledge,  though  he  was  not  a  man  who 

"II   WOT 

I'  i    eased   his   heart  in  stressing  the  first  syllable, 

iporary  relief.    H,.  was  heavy-browed  enough. 

what    she  expects   me  to  do  by 

e  "I  her  position  to  me,"  said  Laetitia. 

•  We  le.ne  of  us  know  what  will  be  done.     We  hang  on 

by,  who  I  on  whatever  it  is  i  hat  supports  him: 

■  arm." 

ing,  Mr.  Whit  ford." 
in  a  >\-.ix  or  two.     Yes,  I  stay." 
ii." 
take  my  authority  on  her  obedience, 
ling   about  Crossjay,   and   get   the 


COLONEL  DE  CEAYE  AND  CLARA  MIDDLETON.  169 

money  for  his  crammer,  if  it  is  to  be  got.  If  not,  I  may  get 
a^  man  to  trust  me.  I  mean  to  drag  the  boy  away.  Wil- 
loughby  has  been  at  him  with  the  tune  of  gentleman,  and 
has  laid  hold  of  him  by  one  ear.  When  I  say  '  her  obedience,' 
she  is  not  in  a  situation,  nor  in  a  condition,  to  be  led  blindly 
by  anybody.  She  must  rely  on  herself,  do  everything  her- 
self. It's  a  knot  that  won't  bear  touching  by  any  hand  save 
hers." 

"  I  fear  .  .  .  ."  said  Lcetitia. 

"  Have  no  such  fear." 

"  If  it  should  come  to  his  positively  refusing." 

"  He  faces  the  consequences." 

"  You  do  not  think  of  her." 

Vernon  looked  at  his  companion. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

COLONEL  DE  CEAYE  AND  CLARA  MIDDLETON. 

Miss  Middleton  finished  her  stroll  with  Crossjay  by 
winding  her  trailer  of  ivy  in  a  wreath  round  his  hat  and 
sticking  her  bunch  of  grasses  in  the  wreath.  She  then  com- 
manded him  to  sit  on  the  ground  beside  a  big  rhododen- 
dron, there  to  await  her  return.  Crossjay  had  informed 
her  of  a  design  he  entertained  to  be  off  with  a  horde  of  boys 
nesting  in  high  trees,  and  marking  spots  where  wasps  and 
hornets  were  to  be  attacked  in  Autumn  :  she  thought  it  a 
dangerous  business,  and  as  the  boy's  dinner-bell  had  very 
little  restraint  over  him  when  he  was  in  the  flush  of  a  scheme 
of  this  description,  she  wished  to  make  tolerably  sure  of 
him  through  the  charm  she  not  unreadily  believed  she  could 
fling  on  lads  of  his  age.  "  Promise  me  you  will  not  move 
from  here  until  I  come  back,  and  when  I  come  I  will  give 
you  a  kiss."  Crossjay  promised.  She  left  him  and  forgot 
him. 

Seeing  by  her  watch  fifteen  minutes  to  the  ringing  of  the 
bell,  a  sudden  resolve  that  she  would  speak  to  her  father 
without  another  minute's  delay,  had  prompted  her  like  a 
superstitious  impulse  to  abandon  her  aimless   course  and  be 


17i>  Till.  EGOIST. 

•t.     She  knew  what   was  good  for  her;  she  knew  it  now 

rly   than    in    the   moraing.      To    be   taken  away 

•  ]\  :     was  her  cry.     There  could  be  no  further  doubt. 

been   any  befi  Bui   she  would  not  in    the 

elf  of  a  capacity  for  evil,  and  of 

a  pi  aeed  to  be  saved  frum  herself.     She  was  not  pure 

of  nature :  it  may  be  thai  w<  breed  saintly  souls  which  are: 

Bhe  was  pure  of  will:  fire  rather  than  ice.     And  in  beginning 

the  element  was   made  of,  she  did  not   shuflle 

them  to  a  heap  with  her  sweet  looks  to  front  her.     She  put 

to  h<  ml   some  strength,  much  weakness;  she  almost 

unblinking  at  a  perilous  evil  tendency.      The 

gli;  it  ilru\ e  her  to  her  father. 

'  J 1.-  ti  '.  ay  at  once ;  to-morrow  ! ' 

■  ■  wished  to  spare  her  father.  So  unsparing  of  herself 
was  Bhe,  that  in  her  hesitation  to  speak  to  him  of  her  change 
of  ft  >r  Sir  Willonghby,  she  would  not  suffer  it  to  be 

attributed  in   her  own  mind  to  a  daughter's   anxious  con- 
ation   about    her   father's  loneliness;    an  idea  she  hail 
Igcd  formerly.     Acknowledging  that  it  was  imperative 
she  I    Bpeak,  she   understood  that  she  had  refrained, 

the  inflicting  upon  herself  of  such  humiliation  as  to 
run  dilating  on  her  woes  to  others,  because  of  the  silliest  of 
i  to   preserve  her  reputation  for  consistency. 

had  heard  women  abused  for  shallowness  and  flightiuess : 
had  heard  her  father  denounce  them  as  veering  weather- 
Ins  oft-repeated  quid  femina  possit :  for  her  sex's 
.  and  also  to  appear  an  exception  to  her  sex,  this  reason- 
i  ii re  desired  to  he  thought  consistent. 
Ju  the    instant    of    her    addressing    him,    saying:: 

:      a  noie  of   serii  in    his  ear;  it   struck   her 

'  tie-  all  had  not  jei  arrived,  and  she 

quickly  interposed  :  "  Papa;"  and  helped  him  to  look  lighter. 
i  a  to  be  taken  away  was  at  tered. 

To     London?"     said    Dr.    Middleton.     "I   don't   know 
who'll  take  as  in." 

papa  r  " 
That  means  hotel-life." 

o  or  three  wee 
m  under  an  en{  nt  to  dine  with  Mrs. 

t  Jenkinson  five  days  hence:  that  is,  on  Thurs- 


COLONEL  DE  CRAYE  AND  CLARA  MIDDLETON.      171 

"  Could  we  not  find  an  excuse  ?  " 

"  Break  an  engagement  ?  No,  my  dear,  not  even  to  escape 
drinking  a  widow's  wine." 

"  Does  a  word  bind  us  ?  " 

"Why,  what  else  should  ?  " 

"  I  tliink  I  am  not  very  well." 

"  "We'll  call  in  that  man  we  met  at  dinner  here  :  Corney  : 
a  capital  doctor ;  an  old-fashioned  anecdotal  doctor.  How  is 
it  you  are  not  well,  my  love  ?  You  look  well.  T  cannot 
conceive  your  not  being  well." 

"  It  is  only  that  I  want  a  change  of  air,  papa." 

"  There  we  are — a  change  !  semper  eadem  !  "Women  will 
be  wanting  a  change  of  air  in  Paradise;  a  change  of  angels 
too,  I  might  surmise.  A  change  from  quarters  like  these  to 
a  French  hotel,  would  be  a  descent! — 'this  the  seat,  this 
mournful  gloom  for  that  celestial  light  ?  '  I  am  perfectly  at 
home  in  the  library  here.  That  excellent  fellow  Whitford 
and  I  have  real  days :  and  I  like  him  for  showing  fight  to 
his  elder  and  better." 

"  He  is  going  to  leave." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  it.  and  I  shall  append  no  credit  to  the 
tale  until  I  do  know.  He  is  head-strong,  but  he  answers  to 
a  rap." 

Clara's  bosom  heaved.  The  speechless  insurrection 
threatened  her  eyes. 

A  South-west  shower  lashed  the  window-panes  and 
susrerested    to    Dr.    Middleton     shuddering-    visions     of     the 

CO  o 

channel-passage  on  board  a  steamer. 

"  Corney  shall  see  you  :  he  is  a  sparkling  draught  in  per- 
son ;  probably  illiterate,  if  I  may  judge  from  one  interruption 
of  my  discourse  when  he  sat  opposite  me,  but  lettered  enough 
to  respect  Learning  and  write  out  his  prescri,  .ion  :  I  do  not 
ask  more  of  men  or  of  physicians."  Dr.  Middleton  said  this 
rising,  glancing  at  the  clock  and  at  the  back  of  his  hands. 
"  '  Quod  autem  secundum  litteras  difficillimum  esse  artifi- 
ciura  ?  '  But  what  after  letters  is  the  more  difficult  practice  ? 
'  Ego  puto  medicum.'  The  medicus  next  to  the  scholar : 
though  I  have  not  to  my  recollection  required  him  next  me, 
nor  ever  expected  child  of  mine  to  be  crying  for  that  milk. 
Daughter  she  is — of  the  unexplained  sex :  we  will  send  a 
messenger  for  Corney.  Change,  my  dear,  you  will  speedily 
have,  to  satisfy  the   most  craving  of  women,  if   Willoughby, 


I  7_*  HI  1ST. 

M  I  in  tin-  Ti'  ■  ashion  of  spending  a  honey- 

■■in  and   perpetuation 
to  the  ins!  itution  !     In  my 

iii I  on  happiness;  we  had  no  though!  of 

incut,   mistaking  hurly-burly  clotli<<l 

in  .1  the  divinity  we  Bought.      A   smaller  generation 

iment.     Dusi    and  hnrly-bnrly  must  per- 

-  :.  .     A ii' I  yonr  modern   world,     ^ow, 

i  wash  our  hands.  Midday-bells  expect 

i  in  ti  attention.  know     of    no    ante-room    of 

■ 

CI  I  up    despairing  at  opportunity  lost 

II.    ■  1   shape  and  her  eyes,  and  had 

t       ed  magisterially  to  smother  and  overbear  the  something 
gored  in  herjappearance. 
'•  Vmi  iln  nut  despise  your  girl,  father  ?  " 
lil  I  d  not;  1  love  her;  I  love  my  girl.    But 

Hur  to  me  like  a  gnat  to  propound  that  ques- 
dear." 
'Then,  fathi  Willoughby  to-day  we  have  to  leave 

lorrow.     Vmi  -  turn  in  time  for  Mrs.  Mountstuart's 

Friends  will  take  us  in,  the  Darletons,  the  Erping- 
hams    We  can  go  to  <  fxford,  where  yon  are  sure  of  welcome. 
A  little  will  recov<  r  me.     Do  not  mention  doctors.     But  you 
I  : i in  ni  I   am  quite  ashamed  of  it;    I  am  wel[ 

igh  to  laugh  at  it.  only  I  cannot  overcome  it;    and  I  feel 

;  ore  me.     Say  you  will.     Say  it  in 
Booi  language;  anything  above  a  primer  splits 
head  to-da 
I '     Middleton  shrugged,  spreading  out  his  arms. 

ibassador    from    you   to   Willoughby, 

'  decree   me  to  the  part  of  ball  between  two 

The  Play  being  assured,  the  prologue  is  a  bladder  of 

I       I    -      ii   to  be  instructed   in  one  of  the  mysteries  of 

yet  on   my    word  I  am  no  wiser.      If  Wil: 

bo  hi  ■■!■  anything  from  you,  he  will  hear  it  from 

; 

We  have  differences.     I  am  not  fit  for 
.  head  is  giddy.     I   wish  to  avoid  an 
ill'.  ss       Ii.   and  [....]  ace  .self." 

ejaculated    Dr.    Middleton.      "I'll 
ni.  Willoughby." 


COLONEL  DE  CRAYE  AND  CLARA  MIDDLETON.  173 

"  This  afternoon  ?  " 

"  Somewhen,  before  the  dinner-bell.  I  cannot  tie  myself 
to  the  minute-hand  of  the  clock,  my  dear  child.  And  let  me 
direct  yon,  for  the  next  occasion  when  you  shall  bring-  the 
vowels  I  and  A,  in  verbally  detached  letters,  into  collision, 
that  yon  do  not  fill  the  hiatus  with  so  pronounced  a  Y.  It 
is  the  vulgarization  of  our  tongue  of  which  I  y-accuse  you. 
I  do  not  like  my  girl  to  be  guilty  of  it." 

He  smiled  to  moderate  the  severity  of  the  correction,  and 
kissed  her  forehead. 

She  declared  her  inability  to  sit  and  eat ;  she  went  to  her 
room,  after  begging  him  very  earnestly  to  send  her  the  as- 
surance that  he  had  spoken.  She  had  not  shed  a  tear,  and 
she  rejoiced  in  her  self-control ;  it  whispered  to  her  of  true 
courage  when  she  had  given  herself  such  evidence  of  the 
reverse. 

Shower  and  sunshine  alternated  through  the  half-hours  of 
the  afternoon,  like  a  procession  of  dark  and  fair  holding 
hands  and  passing.  The  shadow  came,  and  she  was  chill  ; 
the  light  yellow  in  moisture,  and  she  buried  her  face  not  to 
be  caught  up  by  cheerfulness.  Believing  that  her  head 
ached,  she  afflicted  herself  with  all  the  heavy  S}*mptoms  and 
oppressed  her  mind  so  thoroughly  that  its  occupation  was  to 
speculate  on  Laititia  Dale's  modest  enthusiasm  for  rural 
pleasures,  for  this  place  especially,  with  its  rich  foliage  and 
peeps  of  scenic  peace.  The  prospect  of  an  escape  from  it 
inspired  thoughts  of  a  loveable  round  of  life  where  the  sun 
was  not  a  naked  ball  of  fire  but  a  friend  clothed  in  wood- 
land ;  where  park  and  meadow  swept  to  well-known  features 
East  and  West ;  and  distantly  circling  hills,  and  the  hearts 
of  poor  cottagers  too — sympathy  with  whom  assured  her  of 
goodness — were  familiar,  homely  to  the  dweller  in  the  place, 
morning  and  night.  And  she  had  the  love  of  wild  flowers, 
the  watchful  happiness  in  the  seasons ;  poets  thrilled  her, 
books  absorbed.  She  dwelt  strongly  on  that  sincerity  of 
feeling ;  it  gave  root  in  our  earth ;  she  needed  it  as  she 
pressed  a  hand  on  her  eyeballs,  conscious  of  acting  the 
invalid,  though  the  reasons  she  had  for  languishing  under 
headache  were  so  convincing  that  her  brain  refused  to  dis- 
believe  in  it  and  went  some  way  to  produce  positive  throbs. 
Otherwise  she  had  no  excuse  for  shutting  herself  in  her 
room.     Vernon  Whitford  would  be  sceptical.      Headache  or 


174  TM 

,  C  i-!  be  thinking  strangely  of  her; 

.  him  any  Bign  of  ill  E£is    laughter 

i  talk  sung  i   '1"'   fiction ;    be 

wind  for  bracing  unstrung  nerves.     Ber 

!  mi-  Willoughby,  and  ai   once  they  bad  no 

than  the  foam  on  a  torreni  -wal 

she  was   undergoing  a   variation   of  sentiment. 

slay  brought  her  this  pencilled  line  from  her 

fath< 

*•  Factum  i  si  ;  lsetus  est  ;  amantium  irae  Arc." 

.  tli.it  Willoughby  had  put  on  an  air  of 

nee,  and  thai  her  father  assumed  the  existence 

rel,   was  wonderful  to  her  at    first   sight, 

ceeding  minute.     Willoughby  indeed  must  be 

i  of  her,  glad  of  her  going.  *JIe  would  know  that  it  was 

•i.     She  w  efa]  to  him  for  perhaps  hinting 

im  irae.  though  slie  rejected  the  folly  of  the 

•   dear    homely    country    through 

vindow  Bappy  the  lady  of  the  place,  if  happy 

!     Clara  M  iihlleton  envied  her  the 

I  cherry-tree,  nothing  else.    Oneaprigof 

had  no!   faded  and  gone  to  dust-colour  like  crusty 

iw    in    the    lower    hollows,    and    then    she     could 

ay  a   memory  of  the   best   here!      Her 

if  the  headache  pained  her  no  Longer.     She  changed 

din  dre8S  for  silk  ;   she   was   contented  with   the   first 

I.     Amicable  toward  every  one  in 

Willoughby  included,  she  threw  up  her  window, 

mankind:    and  site   thought:    'If   Wil- 

:  open  his  heart  to  nature,  he  would  be  relieved 

ed  opinion  of  the  world.'     Nature   was  then 

bed    in   the   las!   drops  of  a  sweeping  rain- 

rably  disposed  for  a  background  to  her  joyful 

ittle  nibble  of  hunger  within,  real  hunger,  un- 

added  to  this  healthy  view,  without  pre- 

:  it;  she  was  more  inclined  to  foster 

inewy  activity  of  limb  it  gai e  her ; 

ug   ladies   very  light  of  heart,  she 

i ;     and    like   the    meteor 

hted  elose  to  Colonel 

of  the  rooms  off  the  hall. 

LI  at  the  half-shut  door. 


COLONEL  DE  CRAYE  AND  CLARA  MIDDLETON.  1  7-J 

.Now,  yon  have  only  to  be  reminded  that  it  is  the  habit  of 
the  sportive  gentleman  of  easy  life,  bewildered  as  he  would 
otherwise  be  by  the  tricks,  twists  and  windings  of  the 
hunted  sex,  to  parcel  out  fair  women  into  classes  ;  and  some 
are  flyers  and  some  are  runners  ;  these  birds  are  wild  on  the 
wing,  those  expose  their  bosoms  to  the  shot.  For  him  there 
is  no  individual  woman.  He  grants  her  a  characteristic 
only  to  enrol  her  in  a  class.  He  is  our  immortal  dunce  at 
learning  to  distinguish  her  as  a  personal  variety,  of  a 
separate  growth. 

Colonel  J)e  Craye's  cock  of  the  eye  at  the  door  said  that 
he  had  seen  a  rageing  coquette  go  behind  it.  He  had  his 
excuse  for  forming  the  judgement.  She  had  spoken 
strangely  of  the  fall  of  his  wedding  present,  strangely  of 
Willoughby ;  or  there  was  a  sound  of  strangeness  in  an 
allusion  to  her  appointed  husband  ;  and  she  had  treated 
Willoughby  strangely  when  they  met.  Above  all,  her  word 
about  Flitch  was  curious.  And  then  that  look  of  hers  ! 
And  subsequently  she  transferred  her  polite  attentions  to 
Willoughby 's  friend.  After  a  charming  colloquy,  the  sweet- 
est give  and  take  rattle  he  bad  ever  enjoyed  with  a  girl,  she 
developed  headache  to  avoid  him ;  and  next  she  developed 
blindness,  for  the  same  purpose. 

He  was  feeling  hurt,  but  considered  it  preferable  to  feel 
challenged. 

Miss  Middleton  came  out  of  another  door.  She  had  seen 
him  when  she  had  passed  him  and  when  it  Avas  too  late  to 
convey  her  recognition ;  and  now  she  addressed  him  with 
an  air  of  having  bowed  as  she  went  by. 

"  No  one  ?  "  she  said.     "  Am  I  alone  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  figure  naught,"  said  he,  "  but  it's  as  good  as 
annihilated,  and  no  figure  at  all,  if  you  put  yourself  on  the 
wronsf  side  of  it.  and  wish  to  be  alone  in  the  house." 

"Where  is  Willoughby  ?  " 

"  Away  on  business." 

"  Riding  ?  " 

. "  Achmet  is  the   horse,  and   pray  don't  let  him   be  sold, 
Miss  Middleton.     I  am  deputed  to  attend  on  you." 

"I  should  like  a  stroll." 

"  Are  vou  perfectly  restored?  " 

"Perfectly." 

"  Strong  ?  " 

"  I  was  never  bet  I  or." 


I ,  •■.  *IH 

•   I  if  the  wicked  old  mi 

came  t<>  ;  le   him  he   had  one  chance 

I  bi  •  be,   I  1!   believe   in  heaven  if  ye'll 

■  1  burls  it  :  and  the   botl  le  broke  and  be 

suspicion  of  her  laying  a 

:■  him.      These  showers  curling  away  and  leaving 

ts,  are  divine,  Miss  Middleton.     I  have  the  privi- 

the  Christian  name  on  the  nuptial-day.     This  park 

one   of   the    besl    things   in    England. 

;•  the   lake  that  smokes  of  a  corner  of 

Kill  ipts  the  eye  to  dream,  I   mean."     De  Crave 

spirally    upward    like    a    smoke- wreath. 

■r  [rish  Bcenery  ?  " 

••  1  :  •  glish,  S  ih." 

as   it's  beautiful:  yes;  yon   speak  for 

:i  of  races  is  a  different  affair.     I  beg 

q  of  some  ;  Irish  and  Saxon,  for 

Cupid   be  master  of  the  ceremonies  and  the 

the   happy   couple   at    the    mouth   of   a 

Con  VI:  lower  of  Erin   worn  by  a 

;  and   the   Hibernian  courtiu      > 
what  I  said,  and  consider  it   can- 

the  rebel  party,  Colonel  de  Craye?" 

re,  Miss  Middleton." 
politics." 
I  have  seen  would  temp c  me  to  that 
opiii 

"Did  Willoughby  say  when  he  would  be  bacs 

"  11'   ■  icular  time.     Dr.  Middleton  and  Mr. 

d  the  i  upon  a  battle  of  the  books." 

••  li 

olars.     They   are  rather  in- 
• 

■    t  of  p< 
"  V  presume." 

"  Be  Latin  as  I  could  take.     The  fault 

k." 

t  like  a  feather.'* 
"  L  I  light  " 


COLONEL  DE  CRAYE  AND  CLARA  MIDDLETOW.  177 

"Miss  Middleton,  I  could  sit  down  to  be  instructed,  old 
as  1  am.  When  women  beat  us,  I  verily  believe  we  are  the 
most  beaten  dogs  in  existence.     You  like  the  theatre  ?  " 

"  Ours  ?  " 

"  Acting,  then." 

"  Good  acting,  of  course." 

"  May  I  venture  to  say  you  would  act  admirably  ?  " 

"The  venture  is  bold,  for  I  have  never  tried." 

"  Let  me  see  ;  there  is  Miss  Dale  and  Mr.  Whitford  :  you 
a»»d  I ;  sufficient  for  a  two-act  piece.  The  Irishman  in 
S^ain  would  do."  He  bent  to  touch  the  grass  as  she  stepped 
on  it.     "  The  lawn  is  wet." 

She  signified  that  she  had  no  dread  of  wet,  and  said : 
,K  English  women  afraid  of  the  weather  might  as  well  be 
Gnut  up." 

De  Craye  proceeded  :  "  Patrick  O'Neill  passes  over  from 
Hibernia  to  Iberia,  a  disinherited  son  of  a  father  in  tbe 
claws  of  the  lawyers,  with  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Don 
Beltran  d'Arragon,  a  Grandee  of  the  First  Class,  who  has 
a  daughter  Dona  Serafina  (Miss  Middleton),  the  proudest 
beauty  of  her  day,  in  the  custody  of  a  duena  (Miss  Dale), 
and  plighted  to  Don  Fernan,  of  the  Guzman  family  (Mr. 
Whitford).  There  you  have  our  dramatis  personae." 
"  You  are  Patrick  ?" 

"  Patrick  himself.  And  1  lose  my  letter,  and  I  stand  on 
the  Prado  of  Madrid  with  the  last  portrait  of  Britannia  in 
the  palm  of  my  hand,  and  crying  in  the  purest  brosrue  of  my 
native  land  :  '  It's  all  through  dropping  a  letter  I'm  here  in 
Iberia  instead  of  Hibernia,  worse  luck  to  the  spelling!' ' 

"  But  Patrick  will  be  sure  to  aspirate  the  initial  letter  of 
Hibernia." 

"  That  is  clever  criticism,  upon  my  word,  Miss  Middleton ! 
So  he  would.  And  there  we  have  two  letters  dropped.  But 
he'd  do  it  in  a  groan,  so  that  it  wouldn't  count  for  more  than 
a  ghost  of  one  ;  and  everything  goes  on  the  stage,  since  it's 
only  the  laugh  we  want  on  the  brink  of  the  action.  Besides 
you  are  to  suppose  the  performance  before  a  London  au- 
dience, who  have  a  native  opposition  to  the  aspirate  and 
wouldn't  bear  to  hear  him  spoil  a  joke,  as  if  he  were  a  lord 
or  a  constable.  It's  an  instinct  of  the  English  democracy. 
So  with  my  bit  of  coin  turning  over  and  over  in  an  unde- 
cided way,  wdicther  it  shall  commit  suicide    to  supply  me  a 

N 


|78  'llli    BQ0I8T. 

I  beholda  pair  of  Spanish  eyes  like  riolet  lightnings 
be  black   heavens  of  thai    favoured  elime.     Won't  you 
i i  o  1  et  r 

••  Violet  forbids  my  impersonation." 
■•  Hut  the  lustre  on  black  is  dark  violet  blue." 

•  Y..ti  remind  me  that  I  have  no  pretenti  in  to  black." 
Colonel  de  Craye  permitted  himself  to  take  a  flitting  eraze 

I  39    Middleton's  eyes.      "Chestnut,"  he  said.     "Well, 
and  Spain  is  the  land  of  chestnuts." 

••  Then  it  follows  that  I  am  a  daughter  of  Spain." 

early." 
"  Logically !" 
"  By  positive  deduction." 

\'ml  how  do  1  behold  Patrick  PM 
'    \-  one  looks  upon  a  beast  of  burden." 
-  Oh!" 

Miss  Middleton's  exclamation  was  louder  than  the  matter 

of  the  dialogue  seemed  to  require.    She  caught  her  hands  up. 

Iu   the  line  of  the  outer  extremity  of  the  rhododendron, 

ened  from  the  house  windows,  young  Crossjay  lay  at  his 

length,  with  his  head  resting  on  a  doubled  arm,  and  his  ivy- 

wn  at  lied  hat  on  his  cheek,   just  where   she  had  left   him, 

□landing  him  to  stay.      Half-way  toward  him  up  the 

lawn,  she   saw  the  poor  boy,  and  the  spur  of  that  pitiful 

sight  set   her  gliding  swiftly.     Colonel  De  Craye  followed, 

pullinir  an  end  of  his  moustache. 

1  .i y  jumped  to  h 

dear,   dear  Crossjay!"   she  addressed  him   and  re- 
•lii'd  him.     "  And   how  hungry  you  must  be  !      And  you 
must  be  drenched  !     This  is  really  too  bad.-' 

d  me  to  wait  here,"  said  Crossjay,  in  shy  self- 
rice. 

•  I  did,  and  yon  should  not  have  done  it,  foolish  boy!  I 
told  him  to  wait  for  me  here  before  luncheon,  Colonel  Do 
I  and  the  foolish   foolish  boy! — he  has  had  nothing  to 

he  must  have  been  wet  through  two  or  three  times: 
)-<■  F  did  uot  come  to  him 

te  right.     And  the  lava  mighl  overflow  him  and  take 
mould  of  him,  like  the  sentinel  at  Pompeii,  if  he's  of  the 
i  •  iff." 

.<■  caught  cold,  he  may  have  a  fever." 
"  i  I  ler  your  orders  to  stay.'* 


COLONEL  DE  CKAYE  AND  CLARA  MIDDLETON.  179 

"  I  know,  and  I  cannot  forgive  myself.  Run  in,  Crossjay. 
and  change  your  clothes.  Oh  !  run,  run  to  Mrs.  Montague, 
and  get  her  to  give  you  a  warm  bath,  and  tell  her  froni  me 
to  prepare  some  dinner  for  you.  And  change  every  garment 
you  have-  This  is  unpardonable  of  me.  I  said — '  not  for 
politics  ' ! — 1  begin  to  think  I  have  not  a  head  for  anything. 
But  could  it  be  imagined  that  Crossjay  would  not  move  for 
the  dinntr-bell!  through  all  that  rain!  I  forgot  you,  Cross- 
jay T  am  so  sorry  ;  so  sorry  !  You  shall  make  me  pay  any 
forte.  ou  like.  Remember  I  am  deep  deep  in  yonr  debt. 
And  now  let  me  see  you  run  fast.  You  shall  come  in  to 
dessert  this  evening." 

Cross'a,T  did  not  run.     He  touched  her  hand. 

"  You  said  something  ?" 

"  What  did  I  say,  Crossjay  ?" 

"  You  promised." 

"  What  did  I  promise  ?" 

"  Something." 

"  Name  it,  dear  boy." 

He  mumbled  "  .  .  .  .  kiss  me." 

Clara  plumped  down  on  him,  enveloped  him  and  kissed 
him. 

The  affectionately  remorseful  impulse  was  too  quick  for  a 
conventional  note  of  admonition  to  arrest  her  from  paying 
that  portion  of  her  debt.  When  she  had  sped  him  off  to  Mrs. 
Montague,  she  was  in  a  blush. 

"  Dear,  dear  Crossjay  !"  she  said  sighing. 

"  Yes,  he's  a  good  lad,"  remarked  the  colonel.  "  The  fellow 
may  well  be  a  faithful  soldier  and  stick  to  his  post,  if  he 
receives  promise  of  such  a  solde.  He  is  a  great  favourite 
with  you." 

"  He  is.  You  will  do  him  a  service  by  persuading  Wil- 
loughby  to  send  him  to  one  of  those  men  who  get  boys 
through  their  naval  examination.  And,  Colonel  de  Craye, 
will  you  be  kind  enough  to* ask  at  the  dinner-table  that 
Crossjay  may  come  in  to  dessert  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  he,  wondering. 

"  And  will  you  look  after  him  while  you  are  here  ?  See 
that  no  one  spoils  him.  If  you  could  get  him  away  before 
you  leave,  it  would  be  much  to  his  advantage.  He  is  bom 
for  the  navy  and  should  be  preparing  to  enter  it  now." 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  said  De  Craye,  wondering  more. 

n2 


'llli.  EQOIST. 

'•  I  thank  yon  in  ad 

•■    ball  1  not  be  usurping?  .  .  .  -" 

.,  we  I  -morrow." 

'•  For  a  da 
'•  I    i- 
"Two 

"  It  will  be  1' mger." 

-     ,  :      I  shall  not  see  you  again?" 

"  1  fear,  not." 

i    »lonel  1 1  tniit  rolled  his  astonishment;  lie  smothered 

•ion  of   veritable   pain,  and  amiably  said:  "  I  feel  a 
it  J  am  sure  yon  would  not  willingly  strike.     We  are 
all  involved  in  t  In-  regrel  s. 

Miss  Middleton  spoke  of  having  to  see  Mrs.  Montague,  the 

eeper,  with    reference  to  the  bath  for  Crossjay,  and 

iped  otT  tie  II''   bowed,  watched  her  a  moment, 

for   parallel  reasons,   running  close  enough  to  hit  one 

mark,  he  commiserated  his  I  Willoughby.     The  winning 

the  losing  of   thai    young    lady  struck  him  as  equally 

ible  for  Willoughby. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

AN  AGED  AND  A  GREAT  WINE. 


Thf  leisurely  promenade  up  and  down  the  lawn  with  ladies 

arid  atlemen,  in  anticipation  of  the  dinner-bell, 

Dr.  Middleton's  evening  pleasure.     He  walked  as  one 

who  had   formerly  danced   (in  Apollo's  time  and  the  young 

i       •    •  on   the  muscles  of  the  calf  and  foot, 

ring  his  broad  iron-grey  head  in  grand  ele^ation.^   The 

the  day  approved  the  cooling  exercise  and  the 

amenta  of  French  cookery  and  wines  of  known 

i'      raa  happy  at  that  hour  in  dispensing  wisdom 

h<  arers,  like  the  Western  sun,  whose  habit  it 

<  hen  he  is  fairly  treated,  to  break  out  in  quiet  splendours, 

which  byno  mi  ury.     Blest  indeed  above 

.  by  the  height   of  the  how- winded   bird  in  a  fair 

-    '    sky  a!>  ve   the    pecking  sparrow,   is   he  that 

1TI  the  recum  hia   day  sees  the  best  of  it 

1  I  e.      He  has  the  rieh  reward  of  a  youth 


AN  AGED  AND  A  GREAT  WINE.  1ST 

and  manhood  of  virtuous  living.  Dr.  Middleton  misdoubted 
the  future  as  well  as  the  past  of  the  man  who  did  not,  in 
becoming-  gravity,  exult  to  dine.  That  man  he  deemed  unfit 
for  this  world  and  the  next. 

An  example  of  the  good  fruit  of  temperance,  he  had  a  com- 
fortable pride  in  his  digestion,  and  his  political  sentiments 
were  attuned  by  his  veneration  of  the  Powers  rewarding 
virtue.  We  must  have  a  stable  world  where  this  is  to  be 
done. 

The  Rev.  doctor  was  a  fine  old  picture  ;  a  specimen  of  art 
peculiarly  English;  combining  in  himself  piety  and  epicurism, 
learning  and  gentlemanliness,  with  good  room  for  each  and 
a  seat  at  one  another's  table :  for  the  rest,  a  strong  man,  an 
athlete  in  his  youth,  a  keen  reader  of  facts  and  no  reader  of 
persons,  genial,  a  giant  at  a  task,  a  steady  worker  besides, 
but  easily  discomposed.  He  loved  his  daughter  and  he  f  eared 
her.  However  much  he  liked  her  character,  the  dread  of 
her  sex  and  age  was  constantly  present  to  warn  him  that  he 
was  not  tied  to  perfect  sanity  while  the  damsel  Clara  remained 
unmarried.  Her  mother  had  been  an  amiable  woman,  of  the 
poetical  temperament  nevertheless,  too  enthusiastic,  imagi- 
native, impulsive,  for  the  repose  of  a  sober  scholar ;  an 
admirable  woman,  still,  as  you  see,  a  woman,  a  firework. 
The  girl  resembled  her.  Why  should  she  wish  to  run  away 
from  Patterne  Hall  for  a  single  hour  ?  Simply  because  she 
was  of  the  sex  born  mutable  and  explosive.  A  husband  was 
her  proper  custodian,  justly  relieving  a  father.  With  dema- 
gogues abroad  and  daughters  at  home,  philosophy  is  needed 
for  us  to  keep  erect.  Let  the  girl  be  Cicero's  Tullia  :  well, 
she  dies  !  The  choicest  of  them  will  furnish  us  examples  of 
a  strange  perversity. 

Miss  Dale  was  beside  Dr.  Middleton.  Clara  came  to  them 
and  took  the  other  side. 

"  I  was  telling  Miss  Dale  that  the  signal  for  your  subjec- 
tion is  my  enfranchisement,"  he  said  to  her,  sighing  and 
smiling.  "  We  know  the  date.  The  date  of  an  event  to  come 
certifies  to  it  as  a  fact  to  be  counted  on." 

"Are  you  anxious  to  lose  me  ?"  Clara  faltered. 

"  My  dear,  you  have  planted  me  on  a  field  where  I  am  to 
expect  the  trumpet,  and  when  it  blows  I  shall  be  quit  oi  my 
nerves,  no  more." 


1  32  'I  Hi:  BG01 

found  nothing  to  seize  on  for  a  reply  in  these  words. 
She  thonghl  upon  the  Bilence  of  Lcetitia. 

\\  illoughby  advanced,  appearing  in  a  cordial  mood. 
•I  need  no(  ask  you  whether  yon  are  better,"  lie  said  to 
I  :led  to  Laatitia,  and   raised  it  key  to  the  level  of 

Middleton's  breast,  remarking :  "I  am  going  down  to 
sellar." 
••  An  inner  cellar!"  exclaimed  the  doctor. 

,  ,|  from  the  bntler.      It   is  inter  lieted  to  Stoneman. 
I  I  offer  myself  a-  guide  to  you  ?     My  cellars  are  worth 
a  visit." 

"Cell  1 1 . . t    catacombs.     They  are,  if  rightly  con- 

.ditlv  considered,  •  3,  where  the  bottle  medi- 

i.)   bestow,  not  on  dust  misused!     Have  you 

•■  A  v.  ine  aged  ninety. 

"U   it  ass  I  with  your  pedigree,  that  you  pronounct 

tin-  b  _'!•  with  -  ich  assnranci 
'■  My  grandfather  inherited  it." 

"  rour  gran  Ifather,  Sir  Willonghby,  had  meritorious  off- 
jpeak  of  generous  progenitors.     What  would 
i.  bad   it  fallen  into  the  female  line!     I  shall 
accompauy  you      Port?     Herm  tage  ?" 

\  h  !     We  are  in  1  Ingland  !'; 

ill  jusl   be  time,"  said  Sir  Willonghby,  inducing 
M  iddleton  to  Btep  out. 
A  chirrup    was    in    the    Rev.    doctor's   tone:   "Hocks,  too, 

I    ha  ted    senior  Hocks.      Their 

of   many  voices;   they   have  depth 

.il  Port  !   we  Bay.     We  cannot  say  that  of  any 

othi  '     •  is  deep-sea  deep.    It  is  in  its  flavour  di    o: 

k  the  difference.      It   is  like  a  classic  tragedy,  organic 

An  ancient   Hermitage  has  the  light  of  the 

il  it  can  grow  to  an  extreme  old  age ; 

Hermitage  nor  of  Hook  can  you  Bay 

is  the  b       I       those  long  years,  retaining  the  strength 

of  youth  with  the  wi  .  c.      To  Port  for  that  !       Port 

<  >1  I  do  not  compare  the  wines; 

I  di  h  the  qualitii         Let   them  li\  ■  for  our 

•  ;  they  are  not  rivals  like  the  Id  can  Three.   Were 

th  would  challenge  them.     Burgundy  has 


AN  AGED  AND  A  GREAT  WINE.  183 

great  genius.  It  does  wonders  within  its  period  ;  it  does  all 
except  to  keep  up  in  the  race ;  it  is  short-lived.  An  aged 
Burgundy  runs  with  a  beardless  Port.  I  cherish  the  fancy 
that  Port  speaks  the  sentences  of  wisdom,  Burgundy  sings 
the  inspired  Ode.  Or  put  it,  that  Port  is  the  Homeric  hex- 
ameter, Burgundy  the  Pindaric  dithyramb.  What  do  you 
say?" 

"  The  comparison  is  excellent,  sir." 

"The  distinction,  you  would  remark.  Pindar  astounds. 
But  his  elder  brings  us  the  more  sustaining  cup.  One  is  a 
fountain  of  prodigious  ascent.  One  is  the  unsounded  purple 
sea  of  marching  billows." 

"  A  very  fine  distinction." 

"  I  conceive  you  to  be  now  commending  the  similes.  They 
pertain  to  the  time  of  the  first  critics  of  those  poets.  Touch 
the  Greeks,  and  you  can  nothing  new :  all  has  been  said : 
'  Graiis,  ....  pra?ter  laudem,  nullius  avaris.'  Genius  dedi- 
cated to  Fame  is  immortal.  We,  sir,  dedicate  genius  to  the 
cloaealine  floods.  We  do  not  address  the  un forgetting  Gods, 
but  the  popular  stomach." 

Sir  Willoughby  was  patient.  He  was  about  as  accordantly 
coupled  with  Dr.  Middleton  in  discourse  as  a  drum  due  ting 
with  a  bass-viol ;  and  when  he  struck  in  he  received  cor- 
rection from  the  paedagogue-instrument.  If  he  thumped 
affirmative  or  negative,  he  was  wrong.  However,  he  knew 
scholars  to  be  an  unmannered  species ;  and  the  doctor's 
learnedness  would  be  a  subject  to  dilate  on. 

In  the  cellar,  it  was  the  turn  for  the  drum.  Dr.  Mid- 
dleton was  tongue-tied  there.  Sir  Willoughby  gave  the 
history  of  his  wine  in  heads  of  cl  a -iters  ;  whence  it  came  to 
the  family  originally,  and  how  it  had  come  down  to  him  in 
the  quantity  to  be  seen.  "  Curiously,  my  grandfather,  who 
inherited  it,  was  a  water-drinker.     My  father  died  early." 

"Inde?d!  Dear  me  !"  the  doctor  ejaculated  in  astonish- 
ment and  condolence.  The  former  glanced  at  the  contrariety 
of  man,  the  latter  embraced  his  melancholy  destiny. 

He  was  impressed  with  respect  for  the  family.  This  cool 
vaulted  cellar,  and  the  central  square  block,  o^  enceinte, 
where  the  thick  darkness  was  not  penetrated  by  the  intrud- 
in  ;  lamp,  but  rather  took  it  as  an  eye,  bore  witness  to  fore- 
thoughtful practical  solidity  in  the  man  who  had  built  the 
house  on  such  foundations.     A  house  having  a  great  wine 


Ivt  TH  T. 

.  !   below,  lives  in  otir  imaginations  as  a  joyful  h 

didly  rooted  in  the  soil.     And  imagination  has 
for  the  heir  of  the  house.     1 1  is  grandfather  a  water- 
drinker,  his  father  dying  early,  present  circumstances  to  us 
ling  predestination  to  an  illustrious  heirship  and  career. 
Middleton's    mnsings    were    coloured    by    the   friendly 
of  glasses  of  tin-  great    wine;    his   mind   was   festive; 
■  ■■I   him,  and  he  chose  to  indulge  in  his  whimsical- 
robustious,  grandiose-airy  style  of  thinking:  from  which  the 
ive  mind  will  sometimes  take  a   certain  print  that  we 
obliterate  immediately.     Expectation  is  grateful,  you 
know  ;   in  fche  mood  of  iriatitude  we  are  waxen.     And  lie  was 
f-humouring  gentleman. 
Be  li  W'illoughby's  tone  in  ordering  the  servant  at 

his  heels  to  take  up  '  those  two  bottles:'  it  prescribed,  with- 
out overdoing  it,  a  proper  amount  of  caution,  and  it  named 
an  agreeable  number. 

Watching  the  man's  hand  keenly,  lie  said: 
"  Bui  here  is  the  misfortune  of  a  thing  super-excellent: — 
not  more  than  one  in  twenty  will  do  it  justice." 

Willonghby  replied:  "Very  true,  sir,  and  I  think  we 
:  .  er  t  he  nineteen." 

"  Women,  for  example  :  and  most  men." 

"  This  wine  would  be  a  sealed  book  to  them." 

"I  it  would.      It  would  be  a  grievous  waste." 

i>  a  claret-man:  and   so  is  Horace  De  Crave. 
They  are  both  below  the  mark  of  this  wine.     They  will  join 
Perhaps     you     and     I,    sir,     might    remain 
r." 
•  With  the  utmost  nr00Cl  win  on  my  part." 
"  1  am  anxious  for  your  verdict,  sir." 

.  .-hall  have  it,  sir,  and  not  out  of  harmony  with  the 

preceding  me,  I  can  predict.     Cool,  not  frigid."     Dr. 

•li  summed   the  attributes  of  the  cellar  on  quitting 

■  »rth  Bide  and  South.     No  musty  damp.     A  pure  air! 

1  '   '  One    might   lie   down   oneself   and 

all  our  venerable  British  of  the  two  Isles  professing  a 

ttachmeni  to  an  ancient  port-wine,  lawyer,  doctor, 

Imiral,  city  merchant,  the  classic  scholar  is  he 

blood    !  nuptial  to  the  webbed    bottle.      The 

nrasl   be,  that  In-  is  full  of  the  old   poets.     He  has 


AN  AGED  AND  A  GKEAT  WINE.  185 

their  spirit  to  sing  with,  and  the  best  that  Time  has  done  on 
earth  to  feixl  it.  He  may  also  perceive  a  resemblance  in 
the  wine  to  the  studious  mind,  which  is  the  obverse  of  our 
-mortality,  and  throws  oft*  acids  and  crusty  particles  in  the 
piling  of  the  years,  until  it  is  fulgent  by  clarity.  Port 
hymns  to  his  conservatism.  It  is  magical  :  at  one  sip  he  is 
off  swimming  in  the  purple  flood  of  the  ever-youthful 
antique. 

By  comparison,  then,  the  enjoyment  of  others  is  brutish  , 
they  have  not  the  soul  for  it ;  but  he  is  worthy  of  the  wine, 
as  are  poets  of  Beauty.  In  truth,  these  should  be  severally 
apportioned  to  them,  scholar  and  poet,  as  his  own  good 
thing.     Let  it  be  so. 

Meanwhile  Dr.  Middleton  sipped. 

After  the  departure  of  the  ladies,  Sir  Willoughby  had 
practised  a  studied  ctfrtness  upon  Vernon  and  Horace. 

"  Tou  drink  claret,"  he  remarked  to  them,  passing  it 
round.  *'  Port,  I  think,  Dr.  Middleton  ?  The  wine  before 
you  may  serve  for  a  preface.  We  shall  have  your  wine  in 
five  minutes." 

The  claret  jug  empty,  Sir  Willoughby  offered  to  send  for 
more.  De  Craye  was  languid  over  the  question.  Vernon 
rose  from  the  table. 

"  We  have  a  bottle  of  Dr.  Middleton's  Port  coming  in," 
Willoughby  said  to  him. 

"  Mine,  you  call  it  ?"  cried  the  doctor. 

"  It's  a  royal  wine,  that  won't  suffer  sharing,"  said 
Vernon. 

"  We'll  be  with  you,  if  you  go  into  the  billiard-room, 
Vernon." 

"  I  shall  hurry  my  drinking  of  good  wine  for  no  man," 
said  the  doctor. 

"  Horace  ?" 

"  I'm  beneath  it,  ephemeral,  Willoughby.  I  am  going  to 
the  ladies." 

Vernon  and  De  Craye  retired  upon  the  arrival  of  the 
wine  ;  and  Dr.  Middleton  sipped.  He  sipped  and  looked  at 
the  owner  of  it. 

"  Some  thirty  dozen  ?"  he  said. 

"  Fifty." 

The  doctor  nodded  humbly. 

"  I  shall  remember,  sir,"  his  host  addressed  him,  "  when. 


186  1I1E  EGOIST. 

'    ;      .■  t';<- honour  of  entertaining  you,  I  am  cellarer  of 

The  I  Ii\-.  doctor  set  down  his  glass.     "  You  have,  sir,  in 
.  an  enviable  post.     It  is  a  responsible  one,  if  that 
sing      Un  you  it  devolves  to  retard  the  day  of  the 
in." 
"  5Toux  opinion  of  the  wine  is  favourable,  sir?" 
••  I  will  Bay  this: — shallow  souls  run  to  rhapsody: — I  will 
.  that  1  am  consoled  for  not  having  lived  ninety  years 
..  or  at  any  period  but  the  present,  by  this  one  glass  of 
your  ancestral  wine." 

'■  I    am   careful   of   it,"    Sir  Willoughby  said  modestly; 
ituial  destination  is  to  those  who  can  appreciate 
i».      Y"ii  do,  sir." 

'   Still,  my  good  friend,  still !     It  is  a  charge  :  it  is  a  pos- 

ton,  hut  part  in  trusteeship.     Though  we  cannot  declare 

it    an    entailed    estate,    our   consciences    are   in   some    soi-t 

that  it  shall  be  a  succession  not  too  considerably 

dim  I." 

'  Yon  \\  ill  not  object  to  drink  it,  sir,  to  the  health  of  your 
dchildren.      And  may  you  live  to  toast  them  in  it  on 
their  marriage-day !" 

"  5Tod  colour  the  idea  of  a  prolonged  existence  in  seductive 

Ea!      It    is  a  wine  for  Tithonus.     This  wine  would 

I  him  to  the  rosy  Morning — aha!" 

"  I  will    undertake  to  sit  you  through  it  up  to  morning," 

Baid   Sir  Willoughby,  innocent  of  the  Bacchic  nuptiality  of 

the  allusion. 

Dr.   Middleton  eyed  the  decanter.      There  is   a  grief  in 

ra  premonil  ion  of  our  mortal  state.    The  amount 

ine  in  the  decanter  did  not  promise  to  sustain  the  starry 

ni_-lit  and  greel   the  dawn.     "Old  wine,  my  friend, 

is  the  full  bottle !" 

bottle  is  to  follow." 
"  No!" 

"  1  d." 

"1  protest." 
"  It  is  unco  '.•  1." 
'•  I  it." 

"  1-  1." 

"  I  Bu*.  mark,  it  must  be  honest  partnership. 

>  on  are  my  worthy  host,  sir,  on  that  stipulation.     Note  the 


AN  AGED  AND  A  GKE AT  WINE.  J  87 

superiority  of  wine  over  Venus  ! — I  may  say,  the  magna- 
nimity of  wine  ;  our  jealousy  turns  on  him  that  will  not 
share !  But  the  corks,  Willoughby.  The  corks  excite  my 
amazement." 

"  The  corking  is  examined  at  regular  intervals.  I  re- 
member the  occurrence  in  my  father's  time.  I  have  seen  to 
it  once." 

"  It  must  be  perilous  as  an  operation  for  tracheotomy ; 
which  I  should  assume  it  to  resemble  in  surgical  skill  and 
firmness  of  hand,  not  to  mention  the  imminent  gasp  of  the 
patient." 

A  fresh  decanter  was  placed  before  the  doctor. 

He  said  :  "  I  have  but  a  girl  to  give  !"     He  was  melted. 

Sir  Willoughby  replied  :  "  I  take  her  for  the  highest  prize 
this  world  affords." 

"  I  have  beaten  some  small  stock  of  Latin  into  her  head  . 
and  a  note  of  Greek.  She  contains  a  savour  of  the  classics. 
I  hoped  once  ....  but  she  is  a  girl.  The  nymph  of  the 
woods  is  in  her.  Still  she  will  bring  you  her  flower-cup  of 
Hippocrene.  She  has  that  aristocracy — the  noblest.  She 
is  fair ;  a  Beauty,  some  have  said,  who  judge  not  by  lines. 
Fair  to  me,  Willoughby  !  She  is  my  sky.  There  were  appli- 
cants. In  Italy  she  was  besought  of  me.  She  has  no  history. 
You  are  the  first  heading  of  the  chapter.  With  you  she  will 
have  her  one  tale,  as  it  should  be.  '  Mulier  turn  bene  olet,' 
you  know.  Most  fragrant  she  that  smells  of  naught.  She 
goes  to  you  from  me,  from  me  alone,  from  her  father  to  her 
husband.     '  Ut  flos  in  septis  secretus  nascitur  hortis.'  .... 

He  murmured  on  the  lines  to,   '  Sic  virgo,  dum '     I 

shall  feel  the  parting.  She  goes  to  one  who  will  have  my 
pride  in  her,  and  more.  I  will  add,  who  will  be  envied.  Mr. 
Whitford  must  write  you  a  Carmen  Nuptiale." 

The  heart  of  the  unfortunate  gentleman  listening  to  Dr. 
Middleton  set  in  for  irregular  leaps.  His  offended  temper 
broke  away  from  the  image  of  Clara,  revealing  her  as  he  had 
seen  her  in  the  morning  beside  Horace  De  Craye,  distressingly 
sweet ;  sweet  with  the  breezy  radiance  of  an  English  soft- 
breathing  day  ;  sweet  with  sharpness  of  young  sap.  Her 
eyes,  her  lips,  her  fluttering  dress  that  played  happy  mother 
across  her  bosom,  giving  peeps  of  the  veiled  twins  ;  and  her 
laughter,  her  slim  figure,  peerless  carriage,  all  her  terrible 
sweetness  touched  his  wound  to  the  smarting  quick. 


Till:   KGOIST. 

Her  wish  to  be  free  of  him  was  his  anguish.      In  his  pain 

ely.     When  the  pain  was  easier  he  muffled 

himself  in   the   idea  of  her  jealousy  of  La'titia  Dale,  and 

.  the  wish  a  lift  ion.     Bui  she  had  expressed  it.     That 

the  wound  he  sough!  to  comfort;   for  the  double  reason, 

thiit  he  could  love  her  better  after  punishing  her,  and  that 

editate  on  doing  so  masked  the  fear  of  losing  her — the 

dread   abyss    she    had   succeeded  in  forcing   his    nature   to 

shudder  at  ddy  edge  possibly  near,  in  spite  of  his  arts 

ace. 

•What     I    shall   do  to-morrow  evening!"    he  exclaimed. 

"I  do  not   cair  to  fling  a    bottle  to  Colonel  De  Crave  and 

aon.     I  cannot  open  one  for  myself.     To  sit  with  the 

s   will  he  sitting  in   the  cold  for  me.      When  do  you 

brin«,r  me  back  my  bride,  sir  p" 

".My  d»ar  YVilloughby  !"  The  Rev.  doctor  puffed,  com- 
posed himself,  and  sipped.  "  The  expedition  is  an  absurdity. 
I  am  unable  to  see  the  aim  of  it.  She  had  a  headache, 
vapours.  They  are  over,  and  she  will  show  a  return  of 
good  sense.  I  have  ever  maintained  that  nonsense  is  not  to 
1  in  girls.  I  can  put  my  foot  on  it.  My 
arrangements  arc  for  staying  here  a  further  ten  days,  in  the 
ten  our  hospitable  invitation.     And  I  stay." 

"  I  applaud  your  resolution,  sir.     Will  you  prove  firm  ?" 

"  I  am  never  false  to  my  engagement,  Willoughby." 

"  No t  under  pressnre." 

"  I   nder  no  pressure." 

"  Persuasion,  1  should  have  said." 

ly  not.     The  weakness  is  in  the  yielding,  either 
on  or  to  pressure.     The  latter  brings  weight  to 
;  the  former  blows  at  our  want  of  it." 
i  gratify  me,  Dr.  Middleton,  and  relieve  me." 

■  I  cordially  dislike  a  breach  in  good   habits,  Willoughby. 

■  I  do  remember — was  I  wrong? — informing  Clara  that 

ared   Light-hearted   in  regard  to  a  departure,  or  gap 
Bit,  thi  ot,  1  must  confess,  to  my  liking." 

"  Simply,  my  dear  doctor,  your  pleasure  was  my  pleasure; 
hut  my  pleasure  yours,  and  you  remain  to  crack  many 

daw.*' 

You    have   a   courtly    speech,   Wil- 
[  can   ■  i  to  conduct  a  lover's  quarrel  with 

i*I  a  to  well-bred  damsels.      Aha?" 


AN  AGED  AND  A  GREAT  WINE.  189 

"  Spare  me  the  futility  of  the  quarrel." 
"Alfs  well?" 

"  Clara,"  replied  Sir  Willoughby,  in  dramatic  epigram, 
"is  perfection." 

"  I  rejoice,"  the  Rev.  doctor  responded  ;  taught  thus  to 
understand  that  the  lover's  quarrel  between  his  daughter 
and  his  host  was  at  an  end. 

He   left  the  table  a  little  after  eleven  o'clock.     A  short 
dialogue  ensued  upon  the  subject  of  the  ladies.     They  must 
have  gone  to  bed  ?     Why  yes  ;    of  course  they  must.     It  is 
good    thai/  they  should   go  to  bed  early  to    pre  erve  their 
complexions   for  us.     Ladies  are  creation's   glory,  but  they 
are   anti-climax,  following  a  wine  of  a  century   old.     They 
are    anti-climax,    recoil,    cross-current ;     morally,    they    are 
repentance,  penance ;    iniagerially,  the  frozen  ^Xorth  on  the 
young  brown  buds  bursting  to  green.     What  know  they  of 
a  critic  in  the  palate,  and  a  frame  all  revelry  !     And  mark 
you,  revelry  in  sobriety,  containment  in   exultation  :  classic 
revelry.     Can  they,  dear  though  they  be  to  us,    light   up 
candelabras  in  the  brain,  to  illuminate  all  history  and  solve 
the  secret  of  the  destiny  of  man  ?      They  cannot;  they  can- 
not   sympathize    with    them    that    can.      So  therefore    this 
division  is  between  us  ;    yet  are  we  not  turbaned   Orientals, 
nor   are  they  inmates  of  the   harem.     We  are  not  Moslem. 
Be  assured  of  it  in  the  contemplation  of  the    table's    de- 
caliter. 

Dr.  Midclleton  said :  "  Then  I  go  straight  to  bed." 
"  I  will  conduct  you  to  your  door,  sir,"  said  his  host. 
The  piano  was  heard.     Dr.  Middleton  laid  his  hand  on  the 
banisters,  and  remarked  :  "The  ladies   must  have  gone  to 
bed  ?" 

Vernon  came  out  of  the  library  and  was  hailed :  "  Fellow- 
student  !" 

He  waved  a  good  night  to  the  doctor  and  said  to  Willoughby : 
"  The  ladies  are  in  the  drawing-room." 

"  I  am  on  my  way  upstairs,"  was  the  reply. 
"  Solitude  and  sleep,  after  such  a  wine  as  that ;  and  fore- 
fend  us   human  society!"  the  doctor  shouted.     "  But,  Wil- 
loughby !" 
"  Sir." 

"  One  to-morrow  !" 
*'  You  dispose  of  the  cellar,  sir." 


190  THE  EGOIST. 

■   I  am  fitter  to  drive  the  horses  of  the  sun.  I  would  rigidly 
sel,  one  and  no  more.     We  have  made  a  breach  in  ihe 
fiftieth  dozen.     Daily  one,  will  preserve  us  from  having  to 
name   the    fortieth  < piite   so  unseasonably.     The  couple  of 
bottles  per  diem  prognosticates  disintegration,  with  its  ac- 
companying recklessn  >ss.     Constitutionally,  let  me   add,  I 
1  Bpeak  for  posterity." 
Daring  Dr.  Middleton  s  allocation  the  ladies  issued  from 
the  drawing-room,   Clara  foremost,  f  >r  she  had  heard  her 
voice,  and  desired  to  ask  him   this  in  reference  10 
their  departure:   "Papa,  will  you  tell   me   the   hoar  to- 
morrow ':" 

She  ran  up  the  stairs  to  kiss  him,  saying  a^ain :  "When 
will  you  be  re  kdy  to-morrow  morn  n  :  ?" 

Dr.  Middleton  announced  a  s;o  it  ly  deliberative  mind  in 
the  bugle-notes  of  a  repeated  ahem.  He  bethought  him  o! 
replyinginhisdoct  ina  tongue.  C  a  a's  eager  face  admonished 
him  to  brevity:  it  began  to  look  starved.  Intru  ling  on  his 
vision  of  the  hour  is  couched  in  the  inner  cellar  to  be  the 
i'  I  of  valiant  men.it  anno}  el  him.  His  brows  joined. 
Hi  I  shall  not  be  ready  to-morrow  morning." 

••  In  il,  •  o  m  P" 

'  N   r  in  the  afternjon." 
"When?" 
My  d(  a     I  am  ready  for  bed  at  this  moment,  and  hnow 
of  no  other  readiness.     Ladies"  he  bowed  to  thegrmpin 
the  hall  helow  him,  "may  fair  dreams  pay  court  to  you  this 
1 

Willoughby  had  hastily  descended  and  sh  ken   the 

if  ih     ladies,  directed    Horace  De  Ciaye  to  ihelabo- 

ry  tor  a  smoking-room,  and  returned  to   Dr.  Middleton. 

ed  by  the  icertain  of   bis  temper  if  he  stayed 

with  CI  wh  in  he  bad  arranged  that  her  disaproint- 

bould  take  place  on  the  morrow,  in  his  absence,  ha 

•  1  night,  good  night,"  t>   her.  with  due  fervour, 

■  r  ber  flaccid  finger-tips  ;  than  offered  his  arm  to 

the 

"  Ay.  -  »n  Wilh  nghby,  in  trie ndliness,  if  yon  wi  I,  though 

bear  my  loa  I,"  the  father  of  the  stuj  efi  <l  sdrl 

"Cai  lies,  1  believe,are  on  the.  first  lm.ding. 

!  bt,  my  love.     Cla  a!" 


Clara's  meditations.  191 

"  Good  night." 

"  Oh  !"  she  lifted  her  breast  with  the  interjection,  standing 
in  shame  of  the  curtained  conspiracy  and  herself,  "  good 
night.'' 

Her  fa:h  r  wound  up  the  stairs.     She  stepped  down. 

"Thee  was  an  understanding  that  papa  and  I  should  go 
to  Lo.  do  i  to-morrow  early,"  she  said  unconcernedly  to  the 
ladies,  and  her  voice  was  clear,  but  her  face  too  legible.  De 
Craye  was  heartily  unhappy  at  the  sight. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


Clara's  meditations. 


Two  were  sleepless  that  night :  Miss  Middleton  and  Colonel 
De  Crave. 

She  was  in  a  fever,  lying  like  stone,  with  her  brain  burn- 
ing. Quick  natures  run  out  to  calamity  in  any  little  shadow 
of  it  flung  before.  Terrors  of  apprehension  drive  them.  They 
s"op  not  short  of  the  uttermost  when  they  are  on  the  wings 
of  dread.  A  frown  means  tempest,  a  wind  wreck  ;  to  see  fire 
is  to  be  seized  by  it.  When  it  is  the  approach  of  their  loath- 
ing that  they  fear,  they  are  in  the  tragedy  of  the  embrace  at 
a  breath ;  and  then  is  the  wrestle  between  themselves  and 
horror ;  between  themselves  and  evil,  which  promises  aid  ; 
themselves  and  weakness,  which  calls  on  evil;  themselves 
and  the  better  part  of  them,  which  whispers  no  beguilement. 

The  false  course  she  had  taken  through  sophistical  coward- 
ice appalled  the  girl ;  she  was  lost.  The  advantage  taken  of 
it  by  Willoughby  put  on  the  form  of  strength,  and  made  her 
feel  abject,  reptilious ;  she  was  lost,  carried  away  on  the 
flood  of  the  cataract.  He  had  won  her  father  for  an  ally. 
Strangely,  she  knew  not  how,  he  had  succeeded  in  swaying 
her  father,  who  had  previously  not  more  than  tolerated  him. 
'  Son  Willoughby  '  on  her  father's  lips  meant  something  that 
scenes  and  scenes  would  have  to  struggle  with,  to  the  out- 
Avearving  of  her  father  and  herself.  She  revolved  the  '  Son 
Willoughby  '  through  moods  of  stupefaction,  contempt,  revolt, 
subjection.     It  meant  that  she  was  vanquished.     It  meant 


THE  EGOIST. 

thai  her  fal  -term  for  lier  was  forfeited.     She  saw  him 

otic  image  of  discomposure. 

II.  i-  i  her  cowardly  Feebleness  brought  the 

1  What    was   the  right  of  so  miserable  a 

she  to  excite  disturbance,  let  her  fortunes  be  good 

or  ill?     It  would  be  quieter  to  float,  kinder  to  everybody. 

Thank  heaven  for  the  chances  of  a  Bhort  life!     Once  in  a  net, 

eration   is  graceless.     We  may  be  brutes  in  our  earthly 

ni<  -  :   in  our  endurance  of  them  we  need  not  be  brutish. 

She  was  now   in  the  luxury  of  passivity,  when  we  throw 

our  burden  on  the  Powers  above,  and  do  not  love  them.     The 

Love  them  diew  her  out  of  it,  that  she  might  strive 

;  the  unbearable,  and  by  sheer  striving,  even  though  she 

come  to  love  them  humbly.     It  is  here  that 

1  of  good  teaching  supports  a  soul;  for  the  condition 

mapped,  and   where  kismet  whispers  us  to  shut 

.   and   instruction   bids  us  look  up,  is  at  a  well-marked 

j-roa  I  of  the  content . 

tick  of  sensation,  but  not  courageously  resolved,  she  per- 

Bd  how  blunderingly  she  had  acted.     For  a  punishment, 

to  her  that  she  who  had  not  known  hei  mind  must 

ha!  aquer  her  nature,  and  submit.     She  had  accepted 

Willoughby;  therefore  she  accepted  him.     The  fact  became 

r  of  the  bating. 

In  the  abstract,  this  contemplation  of  circumstances  went 

well.      A  plain  duty  lay  in  her  way.      And  then  a  disembodied 

1  her,  comparing  her  with  Vernon  to  her 

tredit.     He  had  for  years  borne  much  that  was  distasteful 

the  purpose  of  studying,  and  with  his  poor  income 

helping  the  poorer  than  himself.     She  dwelt  on  him  in  pity 

and  envy;  he  bad  lived   in  this  place,  and  so  must  she  ;  and 

•    been   dishonoured    by  his  modesty:  he  had  not 

trol,  because  he  had  a  life  within.     She  was 

imagining  she  mighl  imitate  him,  when  the  clash  of 

arp  physical  thought :  'The  diff  ererfce  !  the  differen 

woman  and   never  could  submit.     Can  a 

part  from  him  she  is   yoked  to? 

''    r"    '  way  in   herself:   in   some  corner 

the  ab  riew   had' comforted  her,  to  flee  from 

>ir>!  e    blood   directed.      It   was  a   vain 

I   fate,  the  defemcelessness  of 
)hm-  to  wild  bo:         backs,  tossed 


claba's  meditations.  193 

her  on  savage  wastes.  In  her  case  duty  was  shame  :  hence, 
it  could  not  be  broadly  duty.  That  intolerable  difference 
proscribed  the  word. 

But  the  fire  of  a  brain  burning-  high  and  kindling  every- 
thing, lit  up  herself  against  herself : — Was  one  so  volatile  as 
she  a  person  with  a  will  ? — Were  they  not  a  multitude  of 
flitting  wishes  that  she  took  for  a  will  Y — Was  she,  feather- 
headed  that  she  was,  a  person  to  make  a  stand  on  physical 
pride  ? — If  she  could  yield  her  hand  without  reflection  (as 
she  conceived  she  had  done,  from  incapacity  to  conceive 
herself  doing  it  reflectively),  was  she  much  better  than  pur- 
chasable stuff  that  has  nothing  to  say  to  the  bargain  ? 

Furthermore,  said  her  incandescent  reason,  she  had  not 
suspected  such  art  of  cunning  in  Willoughby.  Then  might 
she  not  be  deceived  altogether — might  she  not  have  misread 
him  ?  Stronger  than  she  had  fancied,  might  he  not  be  like- 
wise more  estimable  ?  The  world  was  favourable  to  him : 
he  was  prized  by  his  friends. 

She  reviewed  him.  It  was  all  in  one  flash.  It  was  not 
much  less  intentionally  favourable  than  the  world's  review 
and  that  of  his  friends,  but,  beginning  with  the  idea  of  them, 
she  recollected — heard  Willoughby 's  voice  pronouncing  his 
opinion  of  his  friends  and  the  world ;  of  Vernon  Whitford 
and  Colonel  De  Craye,  for  example,  and  of  men  and  women. 
An  undefined  agreement  to  have  the  same  regard  for  him  as 
his  friends  and  the  world  had,  provided  that  he  kept  at  the 
same  distance  from  her,  was  the  termination  of  this  phase, 
occupying  about  a  minute  in  time,  and  reached  through  a 
series  of  intensely  vivid  pictures  : — his  face,  at  her  petition 
to  be  released,  lowering  behind  them  for  a  background  and  a 
comment. 

"  I  cannot !  I  cannot !  "  she  cried  aloud  ;  and  it  struck  her 
that  her  repulsion  was  a  holy  warning.  Beiter  be  graceless 
than  a  loathing  wife :  better  appear  inconsistent.  Why 
shouid  she  not  appear  such  as  she  was  ? 

Why  ?  We  answer  that  question  usually  in  angry  reliance 
on  certain  superb  qualities,  injured  fine  qualities  of  ours 
undiscovered  hj  the  world,  not  much  more  than  ouspected 
by  ourselves,  which  are  still  our  fortress,  where  pride  sits  at 
home,  solitary  and  impervious  as  an  octogenarian  conser- 
vative. But  it  is  not  possible  to  answer  it  so  when  the  brain 
is  raging  like  a  pine-torch   and  the  devouring   illuminatioE 

o 


194  THE  EGOIST. 

not  ft  spot  of  our   nature  covert.     The  aspect  of  her 
unrelieved,  and   frightened   her  back  to   her 
hing.     Prom  her  loathing,  as  Boon  as  her  sensations  had 
dto   realize  it,  she   was  hurled  on  her  weakness. 
Graceless,  Bhe  was  inconsistent,  she  was  volatile,  she 
unprincipled,  she  was  worse  than  a  prey  to   wickedness 
ipable  of  it ;  she  was  only   waiting  to  be  misled.     Nay, 
the  idea  of  being  misled  suffused  her  with  languor;  for  then 
battle  would  be  over  and  she  a  happy  weed  of  the  sea  no 
Buffering  those  tugs  at  the  roots,  but  leaving  it  to  the 
'.i  heave  and  contend.     She  would  be  like   Constantia 
then  :  like  her  in  her  fortunes:  never  so  brave,  she  feared. 
Perhaps  very  like  Constantia  in  her  fortunes! 
Poor  troubled  bodies  waking  up  in  the  night  to  behold 
ally  the  Bpectre  east  forth  from  the  perplexed  machinery 
inside  them,  Btare  at  it  for  a  space,  till  touching  conscious- 
they  'live  down  under  the  sheets  with  fish-like  alacrity. 
a  looked    at  her  thought,  and  suddenly  headed  down- 
ward in  a  crimson  gulf. 

She  must  have  obtained  absolution,  or  else  it  was  oblivion, 

So  >n  alter  the  plunge,  her  first  object  of  meditation 

lonel    De   ("rave.      She   thought  of  him   calmly:   he 

aed   a  refuge.     He  was   very  nice,  he  was  a  holiday  cha- 

r.      His  lithe  figure,  neat  iirm  footing  of  the  stag,  swift 

intelligent  expression,  and  his  read/  frolicsomeness,  pleasant 

humour,  cordial  temper,  and  his  Erishry,  whereon  he  was  at 

liberty  to   play,  as  on  the  emblem   harp    of   the   Isle,  were 

ling  to  think  of.     The  suspicion  that  she  tricked  herself 

with  this  calm  observation  of  him  wa"  dismissed.      Issuing 

of    torture,  her  young  nature    eluded   the   irradiating 

arch  of  refreshment,  and  she  luxuriated  at  a  feast 

in  considering  him— shower  on  a  parched  land  that  he  was! 

He  spread  new  air  abroad.     She  had   no  reason  to  suppose 

not  a  good   man:  she  could  securely  think  of  him. 

he  was  bound  by  his  prospective  office  in  support  of 

ml  Willoughby  to  be  quite    harmless.      And   besides 

to   expect  logical    sequences)   the  showery  re- 

in  thinking  of  him  lay  in  the  sort  of  assurance  it 

I,  that  the  mo  thought,  the  less   would  he    lie 

•   as  an  obnoxii  ial:  that  is.  as  the   man 

by  Willoughby  at  the  altar  what  her  father    would 


Clara's  meditations.  19u 

under  the  supposition,  be  doing  by  her.  Her  mind  reposed 
on  Colonel  De  Craye. 

His  name  was  Horace.  Her  father  had  worked  with  her 
at  Horace.  She  knew  most  of  the  Odes  and  some  of  the 
Satires  and  Epistles  of  the  poet.  They  reflected  benevolent 
beams  on  the  gentleman  of  the  poet's  name.  He  too  was 
vivacious,  had  fun,  common  sense,  elegance  ;  loved  rusticity, 
he  said,  sighed  for  a  country  life,  fancied  retiring  to  Canada 
to  cultivate  his  own  domain  ;  '  modus  agri  non  ita  magnus  : ' 
a  delight.  And  he,  too,  when  in  the  country  sighed  for  town. 
There  vvere  strong  features  of  resemblance.  He  had  hinted 
in  fun  at  not  being  rich.  '  Quae  virtus  et  quanta  sit  vivere 
parvo.'  But  that  quotation  applied  to  and  belonged  to  Ver- 
non Whit  ford.     Even  so  little  disai-ranged  her  meditations. 

She  would  have  thought  of  Vernon,  as  her  instinct  of  safety 
prompted,  had  not  his  exactions  been  excessive.  He  proposed 
to  help  her  with  advice  only.  She  was  to  do  everything 
for  herself,  do  and  dare  everything,  decide  upon  everything. 
He  told  her  flatly  that  so  would  she  learn  to  know  her 
own  mind ;  and  flatly  that  it  was  her  penance.  She  had 
gained  nothing  by  breaking  down  and  pouring  herself  out 
to  him.  He  would  have  her  bring  Willoughby  and  her  father 
face  to  face,  and  be  witness  of  their  interview — herself 
the  theme.  What  alternative  was  there  ? — obedience  to  the 
word  she  had  pledged.  He  talked  of  patience,  of  self-ex- 
animation  and  patience.  But  all  of  her — she  was  all  marked 
urgent.  This  house  was  a  cage,  and  the  world — her  brain 
was  a  cage,  until  she  could  obtain  her  prospect  of  freedom. 

As  for  the  house,  she  might  leave  it ;  yonder  was  the  dawn. 

She  went  to  her  window  to  gaze  at  the  first  colour  along 
the  grey.  Small  satisfaction  came  of  gazing  at  that  or  at 
herself.  She  shunned  glass  and  sky.  One  and  the  other 
stamped  her  as  a  slave  in  a  frame.  It  seemed  to  her  she  had 
been  so  long  in  this  place  that  she  was  fixed  here:  it  was  her 
world,  and  to  imagine  an  Alp,  was  like  seeking  to  get  back 
to  childhood.  Unless  a  miracle  intervened,  here  she  would 
have  to  puss  her  days.  Men  are  so  little  chivalrous  now, 
lliiit  no  miracle  ever  intervenes.  Consequently  she  was 
doomed. 

She  took  a  pen  and  began  a  letter  to  a  dear  friend,  Lucy 
Darlelon,  a  promised  bridesmaid,  bidding  her  countermand 
orders  tor  her  bridal  dress,  and  purposing  a  tour  in  Switzer- 

o2 


196  i  hi:  kgoist. 

;      She  wrote  of  the  mountain  country  with  real  aban- 
menl  to  imagination.     It   became  a  visioned  loophole  of 
.!.«•.     She  rose  and  clasped  n  .shawl  over  her  night-dress 
t.i  ward  off  dullness,  and  sitting  to  the  table  again,  conld  not 
luce  a  word.     The  lines  she  had  written  were  condemned : 
they   were  ludicrously  inefficient,     The  letter  was    torn  to 
She  stood  verj  clearly  doomed. 
■    >    9    fall    of    tears,  upon   looking    at   the  scraps,  she 
herself,  and  sat   by  the    window  and    watched    the 
blackbird  on  the  lawn  as  he  hupped  from  shafts  of  dewy  sun- 
■  i  the  long-stretched  dewy  tree-shadows,  considering 
in  her  mind  that  Mark  dews  are  more  meaningful  than  bright, 
the  beauty  of  the  dews  of  woods  more  sweet  than  meadow- 
'         aified  only  that  she  was  quieter.    She  had  gone 
crisis  in  the  anticipation    of  it.     That  is  how 
quick  natures  will    often    be   cold   and    hard,  or   not   much 
moved,  when  the  positive  crisis  arrives,  and  why  it  is  that 
for  astonishing  leaps  over  the  gradations 
which  should  render  their  conduct  comprehensible  to  us,  if 
able.      She  watched  the  blackbird  throw  up  his 
tiff,  and  peck  to  right   and  left,  dangling  the  worm 
each  side  his  orange  beak.     Speckle-breasted  thrushes  were 
■  irk,  and  a  wagtail  that  ran   as  with   Clara's  own  littla 
Thrush  and  blackbird  flew  to  the  nest.     They  had 
wingn.     The  lovely  morning  breathed  of  sweet  earth  into  her 
•i  window  and  made  it  painful,  in  the  dense  twitter,  chirp, 
p,  and  song  of  the  air,  to  resist  the  innocent  intoxication. 
was  not  said  by  her,  but  if  she  had  sung,  as  her 
tod,  it  would  have  been.     Her  war  with  Wil- 
li desire  to  love  repelled  by  distaste.  Her 
cry  for  freedom  was  a  cry  to  be  free  to  love  :  she  discovered 
it.  half-  ring:  to  love,  oh!  no — no  shape  of  man,  nor 

ilpable  nature  either:  but  to  love  unselfishness,  and  help- 
ful' d  planted  strength  in  something.     Then,  loving 
and  being  loved  ;i  little,  what  strength  would  be  hers!     She 
all  the  wi  sded  to  Willoughby   and  to  her 
'              locked  in  her  love:   walking  in  this   world,  living  in 

Pri  had  cried,  despairing :  If  I  were  loved! 

'  happiness,   envy   of    her   escape, 

;   her  then  :  and   she  remembered  the  cry,  though  not 

er  plain-speaking  to  herself :  she  chose  to^ think 


clara's  meditations.  197 

she  had  meant:  If  Willaughby  were  capable  of  truly  loving! 
For  now  the  fire  of  her  brain  had  sunk,  and  refuges  and 
subterfuges  were  round  aboac  it.  The  thought  of  personal 
love  was  encouraged,  she  chose  to  think,  for  the  sake  of  the 
strength  it  lent  her  to  carve  her  way  to  freedom.  She  had 
just  before  felt  rather  the  reverse,  but  she  could  not  exist 
with  that  feeling ;  and  it  was  true  that  freedom  was  not  so 
indistinct  in  her  fancy  as  the  idea  of  love. 

Were  men,  when  they  were  known,  like  him  she  knew  too 
well  r 

The  arch-tempter's  question  to  her  was  there. 

She  put  it  away.  Wherever  she  turned,  it  stood  ob- 
serving her.  She  knew  so  much  of  one  man,  nothing  of  the 
rest:  naturally  she  was  curious.  Vernon  might  be  sworn 
to  be  unlike.  But  he  was  exceptional.  What  of  the  other 
in  the  house  ? 

Maidens  are  commonly  reduced  to  read  the  masters  of 
their  destinies  by  their  instincts  ;  and  when  these  have  been 
edged  by  over-activity  they  must  hoodwink  their  maidenli- 
ness  to  suffer  themselves  to  read  :  and  then  they  must  dupe 
their  minds,  else  men  would  soon  see  they  were  gifted  to 
discern.  Total  ignorance  being  their  pledge  of  purity  to 
men,  they  have  to  expunge  the  writing  of  their  perceptives 
on  the  tablets  of  the  brain  :  they  have  to  know  not  when 
they  do  know.  The  instinct  of  seeking  to  know,  crossed  by 
the  task  of  blotting  knowledge  out,  creates  that  conflict  of 
the  natural  with  the  artificial  creature  to  which  their  ulti- 
mately-revealed double-face,  complained  of  by  ever-dissatis- 
fied men,  is  owing.  Wonder  in  no  degree  that  they  indulge 
a  craving  to  be  fools,  or  that  many  of  them  act  the  character. 
Jeer  at  them  as  little  for  not  showing  growth.  You  have 
reared  them  to  this  pitch,  and  at  this  pitch  they  have  partly 
civilized  you.  Supposing  you  to  want  it  done  wholly,  you 
must  yield  just  as  many  points  in  your  requisitions  as  are 
needed  to  let  the  wits  of  young  women  reap  their  due  har- 
vest and  be  of  good  use  to  their  souls.  You  will  then  have 
a  fair  battle,  a  braver,  with  better  results. 

Clara's  inner  eye  traversed  Colonel  De  Craye  at  a  shot. 

She  had  immediately  to  blot  out  the  vision  of  the  Captain 
Oxford  in  him,  the  revelation  of  his  laughing  contempt  for 
Willoughby,  the  view  of  mercurial  principles,  the  scribbled 
histoi-ies  of  light  love-passages. 


n;  i. 

t,  kept   it  from  her  mind:  so  she  lo 
him,  knew  him  to  be  i  rod   a   variable  Willoughby, 

■    kind    of    Willoughby,  a    Willonghby-butti 

without  having  the  free  mind  to  summarize  him  and  picture 

him  f  ■;•  n  warning.     Scattered  featnres  of  him,  such  as  tlie 

a   call    up,   were   not    sufficiently  impressive.      Be- 

led  mind  was  opposed  to  her  receiving  im- 

Young  Crossjay's  voice  in  the  still  morning  air  came  to 
-      The   dear   guileless  chatter  of  the  boy's   voice! 
Why,  assuredly  it   was  young   Crossjay  who  was  the  man 
loved.     And  he  loved  her.     And  he  was  going  to  be  an 
ning,  true  Btrong  man,  the  man   she  longed 
for,   for  anchorage.     <>h  the  dear  voice!    woodpecker  and 
Bh  in  one.     He  never  ceased  to  (hatter  to  Vernon  Whit- 
:  walki]  le  him  with    a   swinging   stride  off  to  the 

their  morning  swim.    Happy  couple!     The  morning 
•  in    both   a   freshness   and  innocence  above  human. 
They  b«  Died  to  Clara  made  of  morning  air  and  clear  lake- 
water.     Crossjay's  voice  ran  up  and  down  a  diatonic  scale, 
with  h<  re  ;i  query  in  semitone  and  a  laugh  on  a 

She  wondered  what  he  could  have  to  talk  of 
tly,  and  imagined  all  the  dialogue.     He  prattled 
:  i-day  and  to-morrow;  which  did  not  imply 
and    future,  but    his    vivid    present.     She  felt  like  one 
•  Lr  to  fly  in  hearing  him  ;  she  felt  old.     The  con- 
arrived  at  was  to  feel  maternal.     She  wished  to 

Trol  arid  Btride,  I  y  and  Vernon   entered   the  park, 

-.   nol    once   looking  at  the  house. 
1  ahead   and   picked   flower-,  bounding  back 
them.        Clara's    heart     beat    at    a    fancy    that    her 
I.     If    those  Eowers   were  for  her  she 
■ 
o  bathers  dipped  over  an  undulation. 
II  |  rat  I  led  her  chains. 

•  ply  dwelling  on  their  troubles  lias  the  effect  upon  the 

■   ng  to   forgetf  ulness ;  for   they   cat, not  think 

aing,  their  imaginations  are  saturated    with 

iollision,  though  they  are   unable  to 

i  I  for  sweet,  distils  an  opiate. 


Clara's  meditations.  199 

M  Am  I  solemnly  engaged  ?  "  she  asked  herself.  She 
seemed  to  be  awakening. 

She  glanced  at  her  bed,  where  she  had  passed  the  night 
of  ineffectual  moaning  ;  and  out  on  the  high  wave  of  grass, 
where  Crossjay  and  his  good  friend  had  vanished. 

Was  the  struggle  all  to  be  gone  over  again  ? 

Little  by  little  her  intelligence  cf  her  actual  position 
crept  up  to  submerge  her  heart. 

"I  am  in  his  house!"  she  said.  It  resembled  a  discovery, 
so  strangely  had  her  opiate  and  power  of  dreaming  wrought 
through  her  tortures.  She  said  it  gasping.  She  was  in  his 
house,  his  guest,  his  betrothed,  sworn  to  him.  The  fact 
stood  out  cut  in  steel  on  the  pitiless  daylight. 

That  consideration  drove  her  to  be  an  early  wanderer  in 
the  wake  of  Crossjay. 

Her  station  was  among  beeches  on  the  flank  of  the  boy's 
return ;  and  while  waiting  there,  the  novelty  of  her  waiting 
to  waylay  any  one — she  who  had  played  the  contrary  part ! 
— told  her  more  than  it  pleased  her  to  think.  Yet  she  could 
admit  that  she  did  desire  to  speak  with  Vernon,  as  with  a 
counsellor,  harsh  and  curt,  but  wholesome. 

The  bathers  reappeared  on  the  grass-ridge,  racing  and 
flapping  wet  towels. 

Some  one  hailed  them.  A  sound  of  the  galloping  hoof 
drew  her  attention  to  the  avenue.  She  saw  Willoughby 
dash  across  the  park-level,  and  dropping  a  word  to  Vernon, 
ride  away.     Then  she  allowed  herself  to  be  seen. 

Crossjay  shouted.  Willoughby  turned  his  head,  but  not 
his  horse's  head.  The  boy  sprang  up  to  Clara.  He  had 
swum  across  the  lake  and  back;  he  had  raced  Mr.  Whitford 
— and  beaten  him  !  How  he  wished  Miss  Middleton  had 
been  able  to  be  one  of  them  ! 

Clara  listened  to  him  enviously.  Her  thought  was  :  We 
women  are  nailed  to  our  sex  ! 

She  said :  "  And  you  have  just  been  talking  to  Sir  Wil- 
loughby." 

Crossjay  drew  himself  up  to  give  an  imitation  of  the 
baronet's  hand- waving  in  adieu. 

He  would  not  have  done  that,  had  he  not  smelt  sympathy 
with  the  performance. 

She  declined  to  smile.     Crossjay  repeated  it,  and  laughed. 


TP  T. 

II.-  •  ade  a  broader  exhibition  of  ittoVtraon  approaching: 
••  I  My  Mr.  Whitford,  who's  this  ?" 

\  arnon  doubled  to  catch  bim.     Grosajay  fled  and  resumed 
magnificent  air  in  the  distance. 

"Good  morning,  Mies  Middlel  m;  you  are  out  early,"  said 
ion,  rather  pale  and  stringy  from   his  cold  swim,  and 
father  bard-eyed  with  the  Bharp  exercise  following  it. 

She   bad  expected  some  Of  the  kindness  she  wanted  to 
i.  t'.>r  be  could  speak  very  kindly,  and  she  regarded  him 
•  ■r  doctor  Of  medicine,  who  would  at  least  present  the 
futile  drug. 

•'  < '  ■   !  morning,"  she  replied. 

••  Willoughby  will  not  be  home  till  the  evening. " 

"  You  muld  not  have  had  a  finer  morning  for  your  bath.  ' 

"I  will  walk  as  fast  as  you  like." 
"  I'm  perfect  ly  warm." 
"  I;  it  von  prefer  fast  walking." 
"Out." 

M  All  !  3  as,  that  I  understand.     The  walk  back  !     Why  is 
Willoughby  away  to-day  P  " 
'•  He  has  business." 
After  Mveral  steps,  she  said:    "  He  makes  very  sure  of 

■  without  reason,  you  will  find,"  said  Vernon. 
"Call  it  be  P      I  am  bewildered.     I  had  papa's  promise." 
"  To  !  ai  e  the  Hall  for  a  day  or  two." 
"  [1  would  ha ■•  e  been  .  .  .  ." 

sibly.      Hut  other  heads  are  at  work  as  well  as  yours 
If  you  bad  been  in  earnest  about  it,  you  would  have  tal  ea 
ther    into  your  confidence  at  once.     That  was   the 
I  ventured  to  propose,  on  the  supposition." 
"In   i  I   cannot  imagine  that  you  doubt  it.     I 

pare  him." 
'  Tl  in  which  be  can't  be  spared." 

"If  I  had  been  bound  to  any  other  !      I  did  not  know  then 
d  me  a  prisoner.     I  thought  I  had  only  to  speak  to 
>'• " 

riv  men  would  !_rive  up  their  prize  for  a   word; 
Willoughbj 

ag    through     her     thrillinely    from    Vernon's 
i         b,  and  soot  hed  her  deen  adat  ion. 


Clara's  meditations.  201 

She  would  have  liked  to  protest  that  she  was  very  little 
of  a  prize  ;  a  poor  prize  ;  not  one  at  all  in  general  estima- 
tion ;  only  one  to  a  man  reckoning  his  property  ;  no  prize  in 
the  true  sense. 

The  importunity  of  pain  saved  her. 

"  Does  he  think  I  can  change  asrain  ?  Am  I  treated  as 
something  won  in  a  lottery  ?  To  stay  here  is  indeed  indeed 
more  than  I  can  bear.  And  if  he  is  calculating — Mr.  Whit- 
ford,  if  he  calculates  on  another  change,  his  plotting  to  keep 
me  here  is  inconsiderate,  not  very  wise.  Changes  may  occur 
in  absence." 

"  Wise  or  not,  he  has  the  right  to  scheme  his  best  to  keep 
you." 

She   looked  on   Vernon  with  a  shade  of   wondering  re- 


o 


proach. 

"  Why  ?     What  right  ?  " 

"  The  right  you  admit  when  you  ask  him  to  release  you. 
He  has  the  right  to  think  you  deluded;  and  to  think  you 
may  come  to  a  better  mood  if  you  remain — a  mood  more 
agreeable  to  him,  I  mean.  He  has  that  right  absolutely. 
You  are  bound  to  remember  also  that  you  stand  in  the 
wrong.  You  confess  it  when  you  appeal  to  his  generosity. 
And  every  man  has  the  right  to  retain  a  treasure  in  his 
hand  if  he  can.     Look  straight  at  these  facts." 

"  You  expect  me  to  be  all  reason  !  " 

"  Try  to  be.  It's  the  way  to  learn  whether  you  are  really 
in  earnest." 

"  I  will  try.  It  will  drive  me  to  worse !  " 
'  Try  honestly.  What  is  wisest  now  is,  in  my  opinion, 
for  you  to  resolve  to  stay.  I  speak  in  the  character  of  the 
person  you  sketched  for  yourself  as  requiring.  Well,  then, 
a  friend  repeats  the  same  advice.  You  might  have  gone 
with  your  father :  now  you  will  only  disturb  him  and  annoy 
him.     The  chances  are,  he  will  refuse  to  go." 

"  Are  women  ever  so  changeable  as  men,  then  ?  Papa 
consented  ;  he  agreed  ;  he  had  some  of  my  feeling;  I  saw  it. 
That  was  yesterday.  And  at  night !  He  spoke  to  each  of 
us  at  night  in  a  different  tone  from  usual.  With  me  he  was 
hardly  affectionate.  But  when  you  advise  me  to  stay,  Mr. 
Whitford,  you  do  not  perhaps  leflect  that  it  would  be  at  the 
sacrifice  of  all  candour." 

"  Regard  it  as  a  probational  term  " 


Till    B0OI8T. 

"I  r:ir  w  itli  n 

ter  into  the  bead  :  try  the  case  there." 

-  me  aa  ii  J   were  a  woman  of 

-  in  hen  Id  him  that  tears  were  near 

!!,•  shudd  slightly.     "You   have  intellect,"  he  said, 

sed    tli"    lawn,    leaving    her.       He    had   to 

was  Ti"t    permitti  d  to  feel  lonely,  for  she  was  imme- 
L  by  Colonel  De  Crave. 


CHAPTKR   XXII. 

THE  RIDE. 


j\y  darted  up  to  her  a  nose  ahead  of  the  colonel. 
"I  Miss  Middleton,  we're   to   have   the  whol^  day  to 

:•  morning  lessons.     Will  you  come  and  fish 
see  me  bird's-nesl  ?  " 

a   of  beholding  another  cracked 
•n,  my   son:"  the  colonel   interposed:    and  bowing  to 
Middleton  is   handed  over  to  my  exclusive 
for  tin-  day — with  her  consent  r  " 

sely    know."   said   she,  consulting  a   sensation   of 

t"  contain  some  reminiscence.     "  If  I 

i  p'b  plane  are  uncertain.     I  will  speak  to 

him.      I     i  (',.      jay    would  like  a  ride  in 

' 

u  Oh !  1  the  hoy  ;  "  out  over  Bournden,  through 

ap  to   Closham   beacon,  and  down   on  Aspenwell. 
on  for  racing.     And  ford  the  stream!  " 
r.t  for  yon,"  \)<  < Iraye  said  to  her. 
■  1  and  -  l  t In-  1). iv's  hai  d. 

•  witlioiit  you.  i  iv." 

lb,  my  man.  when  you  bathe  ?  " 
At  olonel'e  g  Crossjay  conceived 


THE  RIDE.  20tf 

the  appearance  of  his  matied  locks  in  the  eyes  of  his  adorable 
lady.  He  gave  her  one  dear  look  through  his  redness,  and 
fled. 

"  I  like  that  boy,"  said  De  Craye. 

"  I  love  him,"  said  Clara. 

Crossjay's  troubled  eyelids  in  his  honest  young  face  be- 
came a  picture  for  her. 

"  After  all,  Miss  Middleton,  Willoughby's  notions  about 
him  are  not  so  bad,  if  we  consider  that  you  will  be  in  the 
place  of  a  mother  to  him." 

"I  think  them  bad." 

"  You  are  disinclined  to  calculate  the  good  fortune  of  the 
boy  in  having  more  of  you  on  land  than  he  would  have  in 
crown  and  anchor  buttons  !  " 

"  You  have  talked  of  him  with  Willoughby." 

"  We  had  a  talk  last  night." 

Of  how  much  ?  thought  she. 

"  Willoughby  returns  ?  "  she  said. 

"He  dines  here,  I  know;  for  he  holds  the  key  of  the 
inner  cellar,  and  Dr.  Middleton  does  him  the  honour  to 
applaud  his  wine.  Willoughby  was  good  enough  to  tell 
me  that  he  thought  I  might  contribute  to  amuse  you." 

She  was  brooding  in  stupefaction  on  her  father  and  the 
wine  as  she  requested  Colonel  De  Craye  to  persuade  Wil- 
loughby to  take  the  general  view  of  Crossjay's  future  and 
act  on  it. 

"  He  seems  fond  of  the  boy,  too ! "  said  De  Craye 
musingly. 

"  You  speak  in  doubt  ?  " 

"Not  at  all.  But  is  he  not — men  are  queer  fish! — make 
allowance  for  us — a  trifle  tyrannical,  pleasantly,  with  those 
he  is  foud  of  ?  " 

"  If  they  look  right  and  left  ?  " 

It  was  meant  for  an  interrogation  :  it  was  not  with  the 
sound  of  one  that  the  words  dropped.  "  My  dear  Cross- 
jay !  "  she  sighed.  "  I  would  willingly  pay  for  him  out  of 
my  own  purse,  and  I  will  do  so  rather  than  have  him  miss 
his  chance.     I  have  not  mustered  resolution  to  propose  it." 

"  I  may  be  mistaken,  Miss  Middleton.  He  talked  of  the 
boy's  fondness  of  him." 

"  He  would." 


20  t  I  in:  EGOIST. 


■•  [  suppose  he  is  hardly  peculiar  in  liking  to  play  Polo. 

Kt:i!\ 

••  Be  may  di  t  be." 

••  For  the  rest,  your  influence  should  be  all  powerful." 
'•  U  la  not." 

I  li   I  looked  with  a  wandering  eye  at  the  heavens. 

••  We    are    having   a   spell  of    weather  perfectly  superb. 

And    the    odd  thing  is,   that  whenever  we   have   splendid 

ther  at  home  we're  all  for  rushing  abroad.     I'm  booked 

i  Mediterranean  cruis< — postponed  to  give  place  to  your 

mony." 

-In' could  not  control  her  accent. 
-  What  worthier?" 
She  was  guilty  of  a  pause. 

De  Craye    Baved  it   from   an   awkward  lencrth.     "I  have 
written  half  an  essay  on  Honeymoons,  Miss  Middleton." 
■•  I-    that    the   same  as   a  I  mil- written   essay,  Colonel  De 

"Just    the    same,  with    the   difference  that  it's  a  whole 
i  v  written  all  on  one  side." 
'On  which  Bide?  " 
"The  bachelor's" 

"  W'hv  does  be  trouble  himself  with  such  topics  ! M 
"  To  warm  himself  for  bring  left  out  in  the  cold." 
"  I  loea  he  feel  envy  ?  " 
"  He  has  to  confess  it." 
"  He  has  liberty." 

"A  commodity  he  cun't  tell  the  value  of  if  there's  no  one 
• 

Mould  he  wish  to  sell?" 
"  II'-'-  b  nt  on  completing  his  essay." 

I'm  make  t  be  reading  dull." 

"There  we  touch   the   key  of  the  subject.     For  what  is 

ie   the    pair   from    a    monotony  multiplied   by  two? 

bachelor's  recommendation,  when  each  has  dis- 

i    the  riLriit    sori    of   person  to  be  dull   with,  pushes 

them  from  the  Church  door  on  a  round  of  adventures  con- 

3   i"   be   had.     Let  them  be  in 

their  lives  the  first  or  seconu  day.     A  bachelor's 

private  affair  of  his  own;  he  hasn't  to  look 

kshamed  of   feeling  it   and  inflicting  it  at 

me;  'til  How;  1  punch  it  an  he  pleases, 


THE  RIDE.  205 

and  turn  it  over  t  other  side,  if  he's  for  a  mighty  variation  ; 
there's  a  dream  in  it.  But  our  poor  couple  are  staring  wide 
awake.  All  their  dreaming's  done.  They've  emptied  their 
bottle  of  elixir,  or  broken  it ;  and  she  has  a  thirst  for  the 
use  of  the  tongue,  and  he  to  yawn  with  a  crony  ;  and  they 
may  converse,  they're  not  aware  of  it,  more  than  the  desert 
that  has  drunk  a  shower.  So  as  soon  as  possible  she's  away 
to  the  ladies,  and  he  puts  on  his  Club.  That's  what  your 
bachelor  sees  and  would  like  to  spare  them;  and  if  he  didn't 
see  something  of  the  sort  he'd  be  off  with  a  noose  round  his 
neck,  on  his  knees  in  the  dew  to  the  morning  milkmaid." 

"  The  bachelor  is  happily  warned  and  on  his  guard,"  said 
Clara,  diverted,  as  he  wished  her  to  be.  "  Sketch  me  a  few 
of  the  adventures  you  propose." 

"  I  have  a  friend  who  rowed  his  bride  from  the  Houses  of 
Parliament  up  the  Thames  to  the  Severn  on  into  North 
Wales.     They  shot  some  pretty  weirs  and  rapids." 

"  That  was  nice." 

"  They  had  an  infinity  of  adventures,  and  the  best  proof 
of  the  benefit  they  derived  is,  that  they  forgot  everything 
about  them  except  that  the  adventures  occurred." 

"  Those  two  must  have  returned  bright  enough  to  please 
you." 

"  They  returned,  and  shone  like  a  wrecker's  beacon  to  the 
mariner.  You  see,  Miss  Middleton,  there  was  the  landscape, 
and  the  exercise,  and  the  occasional  bit  of  danger.  I  think 
it's  to  be  recommended.  The  scene  is  always  changing,  and 
not  too  fast ;  and  'tis  not  too  sublime,  like  big  mountains, 
to  tire  them  of  tneir  everlasting  big  Ohs.  There's  the  dif- 
ference between  going  into  a  howling  wind,  and  launching 
among  zephyrs.  They  have  fresh  air  and  movement,  and 
not  in  a  railway  carriage  ;  they  can  take  in  what  they  look 
on.  And  she  has  the  steering  ropes,  and  that's  a  wise  com- 
mencement. And  my  lord  is  all  clay  making  an  exhibition 
of  his  manly  strength,  bowing  before  her  some  dozen  to  the 
minute;  and  she,  to  help  him,  just,  inclines  when  she's  in 
the  mood.  And  they're  face  to  face,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
and  are  not  under  the  obligation  of  looking  the  unutterable, 
because,  you  see,  there's  business  in  hand  ;  and  the  boat's 
just  the  right  sort  of  third  party,  who  never  interferes,  but 
must  be  attended  to.  And  they  feel  they're  labouring  to- 
gether to  get  alorg,  all  in  the  proper  proportion;  and  whethei 


206  Tin:  i:  ."isT. 

he  has  to  labour  in  lifo  or  not,  he  proves  his   ability.     "What 
•  hink  of  it.  Miss  Mid  11   ton  ?  " 
••  I  think  yon  h  tve  only  fco  propose  it,  Colonel  De  Craye." 
"And  if  tl  size,  why,  'us  a  aatnral  ducking  !  " 

"  Y  la  ly's  dressing-hag." 

.in   on   the  metal    for  a  constant  reminder  of  his 

in   Baying  it!     Well,  and  there's  an  alternative  to 

thai  Bcheme  and  a  finer: — This,  then:  they  read  dramatic 

iring  courtship,  to  stop  the  saying  of  things  over 

•i   till   the  drum  of  the  ear  becomes  nothing  but  a  dram 

•  oor  hea  I.  and  a  Little  before  they  affix  their  signatures 

to  t  he   fatal    Registry-hook  of  the  vestry,  they  enter  into  an 

■'n nt  with  a  I  o  lv  of  provincial  actors  to  join  the  troop 

on  the  day  of  their  nuptials,  and  away  they  go  in  their  coach 

and  four,  and  she  is  Lad}    Kitty  Caper  for  a  month,  and  he 

Sir   Barry  Highflyer.     See  the  honeymoon  spinning  !     The 

marvel  to  me  is,  thai  none  of  the  young  couples  do  it.    They 

could    enjoy   the   world,   see  life,  amuse  the  company,   and 

fresh    to  their  own  characters,  instead  of  giving 

tli"-  a  doSi   of  Africa  without  a  savage  to  diversify  it: 

an   impression    they    never  get  over,  I'm  told.     Many  a  cha- 

ter  of  the  happiest  auspices  has  irreparable  mischief  done 

it    by   the  ordinary  honeymoon.     For  my  part,  I  rather  lean 

to  the  second  plan  of  campaign." 

Clara   was  expected  to  reply,  and  she  said:  "Probably 
1  i    are   fond  of  acting.     It  would  require  capacity 

on  b  'tli  siil 

"Miss  Middleton,  J  would  undertake  to  breathe  the  en- 
thu-  or  the  stage  and  the  adventure." 

"  You  are  recommending  it  generally." 

•  I.'  ■  my  gentleman  only  have  a  fund  of  enthusiasm.    The 
lady  will  kindle.     She  always  does  at  a  spark." 
•:  If  be  has  not  any  P  " 

"Then  I'm  afraid  they  must  be  mortally  dull." 

She  allowed  her  silence  to  speak  ;  she  knew  that  it  did  so 

■  loqnently,  and  could  not  control  the  personal  adumbra- 

t  .  the  one  point  of  light  revealed  in, 'If  he  has 

any.1     Her  figure  seemed  immediately  to  wear  a  cap  and 

if  dnlni 

She    was    full   of  revolt  and  anger,  she  was  burning  with 

ible  of  shame  now  at  anything  that  she 

it  turn.  I  to  wrath  and  threw  the  burden  on  the  author 


THE  RIDE.  207 

of  her  desperate  distress.  The  hour  for  blaming  herself  had 
gone  by,  to  be  renewed  ultimately  perhaps  in  a  season  ot 
freedom.  She  was  bereft  of  her  insight  within  at  present, 
so  blind  to  herself  that,  while  conscious  of  an  accurate 
reading  of  'Willoughby's  friend,  she  thanked  him  in  her 
heart  for  seeking  simply  to  amuse  her  and  slightly  succeed- 
ing. The  afternoon's  ride  with  him  and  Crossjay  was  an 
agreeable  beguilement  to  her  in  prospect. 

La?titia  came  to  divide  her  from  Colonel  De  Craye.  Dr. 
Middleton  was  not  seen  before  his  appearance  at  the  break- 
fast-table, where  a  certain  air  of  anxiety  in  his  daughter's 
presence  produced  the  semblance  of  a  raised  map  at  intervals 
on  his  forehead.  Few  sights  on  earth  are  more  deserving  of 
our  sympathy  than  a  good  man  who  has  a  troubled  conscience 
thrust  on  him. 

The  Rev.  doctor's  perturbation  was  observed.  The  ladies 
Eleanor  and  Isabel,  seeing  his  daughter  to  be  the  cause  of 
it.  blamed  her  and  would  have  assisted  him  to  escape,  but 
Miss  Dale,  whom  he  courted  with  that  object,  was  of  the 
opposite  faction.  She  made  way  for  Clara  to  lead  her  father 
out.  He  called  to  Vernon,  who  merely  nodded  while  leaving 
the  room  by  the  window  with  Crossjay. 

Half  an  eye  on  Dr.  Middleton's  pathetic  exit  in  captivity 
sufficed  to  tell  Colonel  De  Craye  that  parties  divided  the 
house.  At  first  he  thought  how  deplorable  it  would  be  to 
lose  Miss  Middleton  for  two  days  or  three  :  and  it  struck  him 
that  Vernon  Whitford  and  Lsetitia  Dale  were  acting  oddly 
in  seconding  her,  their  aim  not  being  discernible.  For  he 
was  of  the  order  of  gentlemen  of  the  obscurely- clear  in  mind, 
who  have  a  predetermined  acuteness  in  their  watch  upon  the 
human  play,  and  mark  men  and  women  as  pieces  of  a  bad 
game  of  chess,  each  pursuing  an  interested  course.  His  ex- 
perience of  a  section  of  the  world  had  educated  him — as  gal- 
lant, frank  and  manly  a  comrade  as  one  could  wish  for  — up 
to  this  point.  But  he  soon  abandoned  speculations,  which 
may  be  compared  to  a  shaking  of  the  anemometer,  that  will 
not  let  the  troubled  indicator  take  station.  Reposing  on  his 
perceptions  and  his  instincts,  he  fixed  his  attention  on  the 
chief  persons,  only  glancing  at  the  others  to  establish  a  pos- 
tulate, that  where  there  are  parties  in  a  house,  the  most 
bewitching  person  present  is  the  origin  of  them.  It  is  ever 
Helen's  achievement.     Miss  Middleton  appeared  to  him  be. 


THE  EGOIST. 

witching  beyond  mortal  ;  sunny  »n  her  langhter,  shadowy  in 
her  smiling ;  a  young  lady  shaped  for  perfect  music  with  a 
lover. 

She  was  tli;it.  and  no  less,  to  every  man's  eye  on  earth. 
!  ling  'lid  not  freeze  her    lovely  girlishness. — But 

Willoughby  did.  Tin's  reflection  intervened  to  blot  luxurious 
picturings  of  her.  and  made  itself  acceptable  by  leading  him 
back  to  several  instances  of  an  evident  want  of  harmony  of 
the  pair. 

And  now  (for  purely  undirected  impulse  all  within  us  is 
not,  thougb  we  may  be  eye-bandaged  agents  under  direction) 
it  became  necessary  for  an  honourable  gentleman  to  cast 
vehement  rebukes  at  the  fellow  who  did  not  comprehend  the 
jewel  lie  had  won.  How  could  AVillonqhby  behave  like  so 
pletc  a  donkey  !  De  Craye  knew  him  to  be  in  his  interior 
stilT,  strange,  exacting:  women  had  talked  of  him;  he  had 
been  too  much  tor  one  woman — the  dashing  Constantia :  he 
liad  worn  one  woman,  sacrificing  far  more  for  him  than  Con- 
stantia, to  death.  Still,  with  such  a  prize  as  Clara  Middle- 
ton.  VVilloughby's  behaviour  was  past  calculating  in  its  con- 
t  absurdity.     And  during  courtship  !  And  courtship 

of  that  girl!       It  was  the   way   of  a   man   ten   years   after 

The  idea  drew  him  to  picture  her  doatingly  in  her  young 

only  bloom  ten  years  after  marriage:  without  a  touch  of 

matronly  wise,  womanly  sweet:  perhaps  with  a  couple 

of  little  ones  to  love,  never  having  known  the  love  of  a  man. 

To  think  of  a  girl  like  Clara  .Middleton  never  having,  at 

nine  and  twenty,  and  with  two  fair  children  !  known  the  love 

of  a  man.  or  the  loving  of  a  man,  possibly,  became  torture  to 

tie'  (  'oloiiel. 

:■  a  pacification,  he  had  to  reconsider  that  she  was  as 
'  only  nineteen  and  unmarried. 

But  she  was  engaged  and  she  was  unloved.     One  might 
ii-  to  it.  that  she  was  unloved.      And   she  was  not  a  girl 
to  be  satisfied  with  a  big  house  and  a  high-nosed  husband. 

There  was  a  rapid  alteration  of  the  sad  history  of  Clara 
I  unloved  matron  solaced  by  two  little  ones.  A  childless 
1  ti-apically  loving  and  beloved,  Hashed  across  the  dark 

(  I    ■ 

her  way  her  fate  was  cruel. 

De  Craye  in  the  contemplation 


THE  RIDE.  209 

of  the  distance  he  had  stepped  in  this  morass  of  fancy.  He 
distinguished  the  choice  open  to  him  of  forward  or  back,  and 
he  selected  forward.  But  fancy  was  dead  :  the  poetry  hover, 
ing  about  her  grew  invisible  to  him  :  he  stood  in  the  morass; 
that  was  all  he  knew  ;  and  momently  he  plunged  deeper ; 
and  he  was  aware  of  an  intense  desire  to  see  her  face,  that 
he  might  study  her  features  again  :  he  understood  no  more. 

It  was  the  clouding  of  the  brain  by  the  man's  heart, 
which  had  come  to  the  knowledge  that  it  was  caught. 

A  certain  measure  of  astonishment  moved  him  still.  It 
had  hitherto  been  his  portion  to  do  mischief  to  women  and 
avoid  the  vengeance  of  the  sex.  What  was  there  in  Miss 
Middleton's  face  and  air  to  ensnare  a  veteran  handsome  man 
of  society  numbering  six  and  thirty  years,  nearly  as  many 
conquests?  '  Each  bullet  has  got  its  commission.'  He  was 
hit  at  last.  That  accident  effected  by  Mr.  Flitch  had  fired  the 
shot.  Clean  through  the  heart,  does  not  tell  us  of  our  mis- 
fortune till  the  heart  is  asked  to  renew  its  natural  beating'. 
It  fell  into  the  condition  of  the  porcelain  vase  over  a  thought 
of  Miss  Middleton  standing  above  his  prostrate  form  on  the 
road,  and  walking  beside  him  to  the  Hall.  Her  words  ? 
What  have  they  been  ?  She  had  not  uttered  words,  she  had 
shed  meanings.  He  did  not  for  an  instant  conceive  that  he 
had  charmed  her :  the  charm  she  had  cast  on  him  was  too 
thrilling  for  coxcombry  to  lift  a  head ;  still  she  had  enjoyed 
his  prattle.  In  return  for  her  touch  upon  the  Irish  fountain 
in  him,  he  had  manifestly  given  her  relief.  And  could  not 
one  see  that  so  sprig-fitly  a  girl  would  soon  be  deadened  by  a 
man  like  Willoughby  ?  Deadened  she  was  :  she  had  not 
responded  to  a  compliment  on  her  approaching  marriage. 
An  allusion  to  it  killed  her  smiUng.  The  case  of  Mr.  Flitch, 
with  the  half-wager  about  his  reinstation  in  the  service  of 
the  Hall,  was  conclusive  evidence  of  her  opinion  of  Wil- 
loughby. 

It  became  again  necessary  that  he  should  abuse  Wil- 
loughby for  his  folly.  Why  was  the  man  worrying  her  ? 
In  some  way  he  was  worrying  her. 

What  if  Willoughby  as  well  as  Miss  Middleton  wished  to 
be  quit  of  the  engagement  ?   .  .  .   . 

For  just  a  second,  the  handsome  woman-flattered  officer 
proved    his  man's   heart  more  whole   than   he   supposed  it, 

p 


•>  K>  i  hi:  EGOIST. 

Xhai  gri  i".  instead  of  Leaping  ;it  the  thought,  suffere'l 

a  check. 

B(  ar  in  mind,  thai  his  heart  was  not  merely  man's,  it  was 
a  conqneror'B.  Ee  was  of  the  race  of  amorous  heroes  who 
glory  in  |>ursuiii!_r.  overtaking,  subduing:  wresting  tlie  prize 
from   a   rival,   having   her  ripe   Eroin   exquisitely   feminine 

inward  conflicts,  plucking  her  out  of  resistance  in  g I  old 

primitive  Fashion.  You  win  the  creature  in  her  delicious 
tlutterings.  lie  liked  her  thus,  in  cooler  blood,  because  of 
society's  admiration  of  the  capturer,  and  somewhat  because 
bf  the  Btrife,  which  always  enhances  the  value  of  a  prize, 
and  refreshes  our  vanity  in  recollection. 

Moreover,  he  had  been  matched  against  Willough by  :  the 

circumstance  hid  occurred  two  or  three  times.     He  could 

name  a  lady  he  had  won,  a  lady  he  had  lost.     Willoughby's 

irtune  and  grandeur  of  style  had  given  him  advan- 

the  start.     Hut  the   start  often  means  the  race  — 

with  women,  and  a  bit  of  luck. 

The  gentle  check  upon  the  gallopping  heart  of  Colonel  De 
1  .e  endured  no  longer  than  a  second — a  simple  side- 
glance  in  a  headlong  pace.  Clara's  enchant  in  gness  for  a 
perament  like  his,  which  is  to  say,  for  him  specially,  in 
part  through  the  testimony  her  conquest  of  himself  pre- 
1  as  to  her  power  of  sway  over  the  universal  heart 
known  as  man's,  assured  him  she  was  worth  winning  even 
Emm  a  hand  t  hat  dropped  her. 

I  [e  had  now  a  double  reason  for  exclaiming  at  the  folly  of 
Willoughby.     Willoughby's  treatment  of  her  showed  either 

Vanity  and  judgement  led  De  Crave 
to  i  the   former.     Regarding  her  sentiments  for  Wil- 

ghby,  he  had  come  to  his  own  conclusion.     The  certainty 
of  i'  ed   him   I  ame  that  he  possessed  an  absolute 

knowledge  of  her  character:  she  was  an  angel,  born  supple; 
she  was  a  heavt  oly  bouI,  with  half  a  dozen  of  the  tricks  of 
•h.  Skittish  filly,  was  among  his  phrases;  but  she  had 
a  bearing  and  a  gaze  that  forbade  the  dip  in  the  common 
gutter  for  wherewithal  to  paint  the  creature  she  was. 

whether  he  was  wrong  for  thefirst  time 
in  his  life  !    If  not  he  had  a  chance. 

Ti  id  be  nothing  dishonourable  in  rescuing  a  girl 

from  ai   •         rement  she  detested.     An  attempt  to  think  it  a 

Willoughby  failed  midway.     De  Crave  dismissed 


THE  RIDE.  211 

that  chicanery.  It  would  be  a  service  to  Willoughby  in  the 
end,  without  question.  There  was  that  to  soothe  his  manly 
honour.  Meanwhile  he  had  to  face  the  thought  of  Wil- 
loughby  as  an  antagonist,  and  the  world  looking  heavy  on 
his  honour  as  a  friend. 

Such  considerations  drew  him  tenderly  close  to  Miss 
Middleton.  It  must,  however,  be  confessed  that  the  mental 
iirdour  of  Colonel  De  Craye  had  been  a  little  sobered  by  his 
glance  at  the  possibility  of  both  of  the  couple  being  of  one 
mind  on  the  subject  of  their  betrothal.  Desireable  as  it  was 
that  they  should  be  united  in  disagreeing,  it  reduced  the 
romance  to  platitude,  and  the  third  person  in  the  drama  to 
the  appearance  of  a  stick.  INb  man  likes  to  play  that  part. 
Memoirs  of  the  favourites  of  Goddesses,  if  we  had  them, 
would  confirm  it  of  men's  tastes  in  this  respect,  though  the 
divinest  be  the  prize.     We  behold  what  part  they  played. 

De  Craye  chanced  to  be  crossing  the  hall  from  the  labora- 
tory to  the  stables  when  Clara  shut  the  library-door  behind 
her.  He  said  something  whimsical,  and  did  not  stop,  nor 
did  he  look  twice  at  the  face  he  had  been  longing  for. 

What  he  had  seen  made  him  fear  there  would  be  no  ride 
out  with  her  that  day.  Their  next  meeting  reassured  him  ; 
she  was  dressed  in  her  riding-habit  and  wore  a  countenance 
resolutely  cheerful.  He  gave  himself  the  word  of  command 
to  take  his  tone  from  her. 

He  was  of  a  nature  as  quick  as  Clara's.  Experience 
pushed  him  farther  than  she  could  go  in  fancy ;  but  expe- 
rience laid  a  sobering  finger  on  his  practical  steps,  and  bade 
•  them  hang  upon  her  initiative.  She  talked  little.  Young 
Crossjay  cantering  ahead  was  her  favourite  subject.  She 
was  very  much  changed  since  the  early  morning ;  his  liveli- 
ness, essayed  by  him  at  a  hazard,  was  unsuccessful ;  grave 
English  pleased  her  best.  The  descent  from  that  was 
naturally  to  melancholy.  She  mentioned  a  regret  she  had 
that  the  Veil  was  interdicted  to  women  in  Protestant  coun- 
tries. De  Craye  wTas  fortunately  silent;  he  could  think  of 
no  other  veil  than  the  Moslem,  and  when  her  meaning 
struck  his  witless  head,  he  admitted  to  himself  that  devout 
attendance  on  a  young  lady's  mind  stupefies  man's  intel- 
ligence. Half  an  hour  later,  he  was  as  foolish  in  supposing 
it  a  confidence.     He  was  again  saved  by  silence. 

In  Aspenwell  village  she  drew  a  letter  from  her  bosom 

p2 


2\'2  THE  EGOIST. 

an. 1  called  to  Crossjay  to  posl  it.     The  boy  trangout:  "Miss 
Lucy  Darleton  '■     Wh&i  a  nice  name  !' 

Clara  did  not  show  that  the  name  betrayed  anything. 
She  said  to  De  Craye:  "It  proves  he  should  not  be  here 
thinking  of  nice  names." 

Her  companion  replied :  "  You  may  be  right."    He  added, 
to  avoid  feeling  too  subservient:  "Boys  will." 

■  X.it  if  they  have  stern  masters  to  teach  them  their  daily 
lessons,  and  some  of  the  lessons  of  existence." 
••  \  ernon  Whitford  is  not  stern  enough  ?" 
"  Mi-.  Whitford  has  to  contend  with  other  influences  here." 
"With  Willoughby?" 
•■  Not  with  Willoughby." 

He  understood  her.  She  touched  the  delicate  indication 
firmly.  The  man's  heart  respected  her  for  it  ;  not  many 
girla  could  be  so  thoughtful  or  dare  to  be  so  direct;  he  saw 
thai  she  had  become  deeply  serious,  and  he  felt  her  love  of 
the  boy  to  be  maternal,  past  maiden  sentiment. 

J!y  this  light  of  her  seriousness,  the  posting  of  her  letter 
in  a  distant  village,  not  entrusting  it  to  the  Hall  post-box, 
mighl  have  import;  not  that  she  would  apprehend  the  viola- 
tion of  her  private  correspondence,  but  we  like  to  see  our 
tf  weighty  meaning  pass  into  the  mouth  of  the  public 
bo 

ntly  this  letter  was  important.     It  was  to  sup- 
po8<  in    the   conduct    of    a    variable    damsel. 

I      ipled  with    her  remark  about  the  Veil,  and  with  other 
thil  '     words,    breathing  from    her    (which  were    the 

bn  ath  of  her  condition),  it  was  not  unreasonably  to  be  sup- 
Sin-  might  even  be  a  very  consistent  person.     If  one 
only  had  t  be  key  of  her! 

She  spoke  once  of  an  immediate  visit  to  London,  supposing 
thai  old  indue,-  her  father  to  go.     De  Craye  remem- 

I  the  occurrence  in  the  hall  at  night,  and  her  aspect  of 
di  -  • 

They  raced  along  Aspenwell  Common  to  the  ford;  shallow, 
the  chagrin  of  young  Crossjay.  between  whom  and  them- 
Belves  they  lefl  B  fitting  space  for  hia   rapture  in  leading  his 
y  to  Bplash  ii])  and  down,  lord  of  the  stream. 

•  of  motion  bo  strikes  the  blood  on  the  brain  that 
on:    ■  '  -  are  lightnings,  the  heart  is  master  of  them. 

De  I  wa-   heated    bv    his    trallop  to   venture  on  the 


THE  RIDE.  213 

angling  question :  "  Am  I  to  hear  the  names  of  the  brides- 
maids ?" 

The  pace  had  nerved  Clara  to  speak  to  it  sharply.  "There 
is  no  need." 

"  Have  I  no  claim  ?" 

She  was  mute. 

"  Miss  Lucy  Darleton,  for  instance  ;  whose  name  I  am 
almost  as  much  in  love  with  as  Cross  jay." 

"  She  will  not  be  bridesmaid  to  me." 

"  She  declines  ?     Add  my  petition,  I  beg." 

"  To  all  ?  or  to  her  ?" 

"  Do  all  the  bridesmaids  decline  ?" 

"  The  scene  is  too  ghastly." 

"  A  marriage  ?" 

"  Girls  have  grown  sick  of  it." 

"  Of  weddings  ?     We'll  overcome  the  sickness." 

"With  some." 

"  Not  with  Miss  Darleton  ?     You  tempt  my  eloquence.'* 

"  You  wish  it  ?" 

"  To  win  her  consent  ?     Certainly." 

"  The  scene!" 

"  Do  I  wish  that  ?" 

"Marriage!"  exclaimed  Clara,  dashing  into  the  ford, 
fearful  of  her  ungovernable  wildness  and  of  what  it  might 
have  kindled. — You,  father !  you  have  driven  me  to  un- 
maidenliness ! — She  forgot  Willoughby  in  her  father,  who 
wo  aid  not  quit  a  comfortable  house  for  her  all  but  prostrate 
beseeching ;  would  not  bend  his  mind  to  her  explanations, 
answered  her  with  the  horrid  iteration  of  such  deaf  mis- 
understanding as  may  be  associated  with  a  tolling  bell. 

De  Craye  allowed  her  to  catch  Crossjay  by  he^-elf.  They 
entered  a  narrow  lane,  mysterious  with  possible  birds'  eggs 
in  the  May-green  hedges.  As  there  was  not  room  for  three 
abreast,  the  colonel  made  up  the  rearguard,  and  was  consoled 
by  having  Miss  Middleton's  figirre  to  contemplate  ;  but  the 
readiness  of  her  joining  in  Crossjay's  pastime  of  the  nest- 
hunt  was  not  so  pleasing  to  a  man  that  she  had  wound  to 
a  pitch  of  excitement.  Her  scornful  accent  on  '  Marriage  ' 
rang  through  him.  Apparently  she  was  beginning  to  do 
with  him  just  as  she  liked,  herself  entirely  unconcerned. 

She  kept  Crossjay  beside  her  till  she  dismounted,  and  the 
colonel  was  left  to  the  procession  of  elephantine  ideas  in  his 


•j  14  THI   E001 

g  he  took  Pot  natural  weigfct.    We 

do  no!  with  impunity  abandon  the  initiative.    Men  who  have 

.,,1  ,,  are  like  cavalry  put  on  the  defensive ;  a  very  small 

•  itb  .-in  ictus  will  Bcatter  them.  t         , 

Anxiety  to  recover  Losl   ground  reduced  the  dimensions  ol 

his  id,       •    a  practical  Btandard. 

Two  ideas  were  opposed  Like  duellists  benl  on  the  slaughter 

ther.     Either  Bhe  amazed  him  by  confirming  the 

•     be  bad  gathered  of  her  sentiments  for  Willoughby 

moments  of  In.  introduction  to  her;  or  she  amazed 

him  ode)  For  coquettes:— the  married  and  the  widowed 

!ii  apply  i"  her  for  li 

combatants  exchanged  shots,but  remained  standing: 

the  encounter  was  undecided.    Whatever  the  result,  no  per&on 

I  [ara  Middletou  had  he  ever  met.     Her  cry 

loathing:  '  Marriage!'  coming  From  a  girl,  rang  faintly 

ut  virginal  aspiration  of  the  sex  to  escape 

m  their  coil,  and  bespoke  a  pure  cold  savage  pride  that 

planted  his  thirst  i'ur  her  to  higher  fields. 


cb  niter  xxni. 

PHI    ONIOM  01  TBMPEB  AND  POLICY. 

Bra  Wrti        bbv  meanw  bile  was  on  a  line  of  conduct  suit- 

n  of  his  duty  to  himself .    He  had  deluded 

self  with  the  simple  notion  that  good  fruit  would  come  of 

t  ti  mper  and  policy. 

\,,  delusion  is  older,  none  apparently  bo  promising,  both 

iliance.     ret,  the  theorists  upon 

Inn  they  are  obviously  of  adverse  dis- 

Ai.'l  this  is  trui  much  as  neither  of  them  will 

-uhiint  to  the  i  ablished  union  ;  as  soon  as  they 

hief,  they   set   to  work  tugging  for  a 

ions,  the  one  for  I  be  other, 

which  precipitate  them  to  embrace  whenever  they  meet  in  a 

i  ■    ■.  it  h  the  owner  of  it   to  gel  him  to 

.   bwitb  a*  wedding-priest.    And  here  is  the  reason  : 


TEMPER  AND  POLICY.  215 

temper,  to  warrant  its  appearance,  desires  to  be  thought  as 
deliberative  as  policy  ;  and  policy,  the  sooner  to  prove  its 
shrewdness,  is  impatient  for  the  quick  blood  of  temper. 

It  will  be  well  for  men  to  resolve  at  the  first  approaches 
of  the  amorous  but  fickle  pair  upon  interdicting  even  an 
accidental  temporary  junction  :  for  the  astonishing  sweetness 
of  the  couple  when  no  more  than  the  ghosts  of  them  have 
come  together  in  a  projecting  mind  is  an  intoxication  beyond 
fermented  grapejuice  or  a  witch's  brewage  ;  and  under  the 
guise  of  active  wits  they  will  lead  us  to  the  parental  medi- 
tation of  antics  compared  with  which  a  Pagan  Saturnalia 
were  less  impious  in  the  sight  of  sanity.  This  is  full- 
mouthed- language  ;  but  on  our  studious  way  through  any 
human  career  we  are  subject  to  fits  of  moral  elevation  ;  the 
theme  inspires  it,  and  the  sage  residing  in  every  civilized 
bosom  approves  it. 

Decide  at  the  outset,  that  temper  is  fatal  to  policy  :  hold 
them  with  both  hands  in  division.  One  might  add,  be  doubt- 
ful of  your  policy  and  repress  your  temper  :  it  would  be  to 
suppose  you  wise.  You  can  however,  by  incorporating  two 
or  three  captains  of  the  great  army  of  truisms  bequeathed  to 
us  by  ancient  wisdom,  fix  in  your  service  those  veteran  old 
standfasts  to  check  you.  They  will  not  be  serviceless  in 
their  admonitions  to  your  understanding,  and  they  will  so 
contrive  to  reconcile  with  it  the  natural  caperings  of  the 
wayward  young  sprig  Conduct,  that  the  latter,  who  com- 
monly learns  to  walk  upright  and  straight  from  nothing 
softer  than  raps  of  a  blui.  ;eon  on  his  crown,  shall  foot 
soberly,  appearing  at  least  wary  of  dangerous  corners. 

Now  Willoughby  had  not  to  be  taught  that  temper  is 
fatal  to  policy  ;  he  was  beginning  to  see  in  addition  that  the 
temper  he  encouraged  was  particularly  obnoxious  to  the 
policy  he  adopted ;  and  although  his  purpose  in  mounting 
horse  after  yesterday  frowning  on  his  bride  was  definite, 
and  might  be  deemed  sagacious,  he  bemoaned  already  the 
fatality  pushing  him  ever  farther  from  her  in  chase  of  a 
satisfaction  impossible  to  grasp. 

But  the  bare  fact  that  her  behaviour  demanded  a  line  of 
policy  crossed  the  grain  of  his  temper  :  it  was  very  offensive. 

Considering  that  she  wounded  him  severely,  her  reversal 
of  their  proper  parts,  by  taking  the  part  belonging  to  him, 
and  requiring  his  watchfulness,  and  the  careful  dealings  ha 


216  THE  EGOIST. 

was  accustomed  to  expect  from  others  and  had  a  right  to 
ezad  of  her,  was  injuriously  unjust.  The  feelings  of  a  man 
d  it  aril j  sensitive  to  property  accused  her  of  a  trespassing 
impudence,  and  knowing  himself,  by  testimony  of  his  house- 
hold, his  tenants  and  the  neighbourhood,  and  the  world  as 
well,  amiable  when  lie  received  his  dues,  he  contemplated 
her  with  an  air  of  stiff-backed  ill-treatment,  not  devoid  of  a 
certain  >anct  ilicat  ion  of  martyrdom. 

His  bitteresl  enemy  would  hardly  declare  that  it  was  he 
who  was  in  the  wrong. 

Clara  herself  had  never  been  audacious  enough  to  say 
that.  Distaste  of  his  person  was  inconceivable  to  the 
favourite  of  society.  The  capricious  creature  probably 
wanted  a  whipping  to  bring  her  to  the  understanding  of  the 
principle  called  mastery,  which  is  in  man. 

Bui  was  he  administering  it?     If  he  retained  ahold  on 
her,  he  could  undoubtedly  apply  the  scourge  at  leisure  ;  any 
kind  of  scourge  ;  he  could  shun  her,  look  on  her  frigidly, 
unbend  to  her  to  find  a  warmer  place  for  sarcasm,  pityingly 
smile,    ridicule,    pay   court    elsewhere.      He  could  do  these 
things  if  he  retained  a  hold  on  her;  and  he  could  do  them 
well  bee          of  the  faith  he  had  in  his  renowned  amiability; 
for  in  doing  tie  m,  he  could  feel  that  he  was  other  than  he 
ied.  and   his   own  cordial   nature  was  there  to  comfort 
him   while   he  bestowed  punishment.      Cordial  indeed,  the 
chills   he   endured    were   fluiicr   from  the  world.      His   heart 
in  tint  action:   half  the  hearts  now  beating  have  a  mild 
form   of   it    to    keep    them   merry:  and  the  chastisement  he 
desired  to  inflict  was  really  no  more  than  righteous  vengeance 
for  an  offended  Lr Iness  of  heart.     Clara  figuratively,  abso- 
lutely perhaps,  on  her  knees,  he  would  raise  her  and  forgive 
He  yearned  for  the  situation.     To  let  her  understand 
how  little  she  had  known  him  !     It  would  be  worth  the  pain 
had  dealt,  to  pour  fori  h  t  he  stream  of  re-established  con- 
fid.  ■            i  paint  himself  to  her  as  he  was  ;  as  he  was  in  the 
ppirit,  I     '           be    was    to  the   world:   though  the  world  had 
in  to  do  him  honour. 

I  er,  she  would  have  to  be  humbled. 

oing  whispered  thai  his  hold  on  her  was  lost. 

In  such  a  cat  .-   blow  he   struck  would  set  her  flying 

her,  till  the  breach  between  them  would  be  past  bridging. 

Det<  rmination  noi  to  l<  I  her  go,  was  the  besi  finish  to  this 


TEMPER  AND  POLICY.  217 

perpetually  revolving  round  which  went  Hire  the  same  old 
wheel-planks  of  a  water-mill  in  his  head  at  a  review  of  the 
injury  he  sustained.  He  had  come  to  it  before,  and  he  camo 
to  it  again.  There  was  his  vengeance.  It  melted  him,  she 
was  so  sweet !  She  shone  for  him  like  the  sunny  breeze  on 
water.     Thinking  of  her  caused  a  catch  of  his  breath. 

The  dreadful  young  woman  had  a  keener  edge  for  the 
senses  of  men  than  sovereign  beauty. 

It  would  be  madness  to  let  her  go. 

She  affected  him  like  an  outlook  on  the  great  Patterne 
estate  after  an  absence,  when  his  welcoming  flag  wept  fur 
pride  above  Patterne  Hall. 

It  would  be  treason  to  let  her  go. 

It  would  be  cruelty  to  her. 

He  was  bound  to  reflect  that  she  was  of  tender  age,  and 
the  foolishness  of  the  wretch  was  excuseable  to  extreme 
youth. 

We  toss  away  a  flower  that  we  are  tired  of  smelling  and 
do  not  wish  to  carry.  But  the  rose — young  woman — is  not 
cast  off  with  impunity.  A  fiend  in  shape  of  man  is  always 
behind  us  to  appropriate  her.  He  that  touches  that  rejected 
thing  is  larcenous.  Willoughby  had  been  sensible  of  it  in 
the  person  of  Lastitia:  and  by  all  the  more  that  Clara's 
charms  exceeded  the  faded  creature's,  he  felt  it  now.  Ten 
thousand  Furies  thickened  about  him  at  a  thought  of  her 
lying  by  the  roadside  without  his  having  crushed  all  bloom 
and  odour  out  of  her  which  might  tempt  even  the  curiosity 
of  the  fiend,  man. 

On  the  other  hand,  supposing  her  to  lie  there  untouched, 
universally  declined  by  the  sniffing  sagacious  dog- fiend,  a 
miserable  spinster  for  years,  he  could  conceive  notions  of  his 
remorse.  A  soft  remorse  may  be  adopted  as  an  agreeable 
sensation  within  view  of  the  wasted  penitent  whom  we  have 
struck  a  trifle  too  hard.  Seeing  her  penitent,  he  certainly 
would  be  willing  to  surround  her  with  little  offices  of  com- 
promising kindness.  It  would  depend  on  her  age.  Suppos- 
ing her  still  youngish,  there  might  be  captivating  passages 
between  them  ;  as  thus,  in  a  style  not  unfamiliar  : 

"  And  was  it  my  fault,  my  poor  girl  ?  Am  I  to  blame, 
that  you  have  passed  a  lonely  unloved  youth  ?" 

"No,  Willoughby;  the  irreparable  error  was  mine,  the 
blame  is  mine,  mine  only.     I  live  to  repent  it.    I  do  not  seek, 


218  i  ii  k  i.i." i- 1 

I  have  nnt  deserved,  your  pardon.  BPad  I  it,  I  should 
;  my  own  Belf-esteem  to  presume  to  eiasp  it  to  a  bosom 
ever  anworl hy  of  you." 

••I  may  have  been  impatient,  Clara:  we  are  human !" 
'•  Never  be  it  mine  to  accuse  one  on  whom  I  laid  so  heavy 
a  w<  i«  1.  irbearance  !" 

■■  Still,  my  old    love  !  —  for  T  am  merely  quoting  history  in 

ling  yon  so — I  cannot  have  been  perfectly  blameless." 
••  To  me  yon  w  '1  are." 

••Clan 

"Willoughbj 
"Musi    I    recognize  the  bitter  truth  that  we   two,  once 

irly  one  !  are  eternally  separated  ?" 
'•  I  have  envisaged  it.      My  friend — I  may  call  you  friend: 
you   have  ever  been  my  friend,  my  best  friend!     Oh,  that 
bad  been  mine  to  know  the  friend  I  had! — Willoughby, 
in  the  dark'  -lit.  and  during  days  that  were  as  night 

to  my  soul,  1   bave  the  inexorable  finger  pointing  my 

tary  way  through  the  wilderness  from  a  Paradise  forfeited 
by  in\  mosl  wilful,  my  wanton,  sin.  We  have  met.  It  is 
:  e  than  I  have  merited.  We  part.  In  merry  let  it  be  for 
Oh,  terrible  word!  Coined  by  the  passions  of  our 
u-  for  our  sole  riches  when  we  are  bank- 
rupt thly  treasures,  and  is  the  passport  given  by  Abne- 
gation unto  Woe  thai  prays  to  quit  this  probationary  sphere. 
Willoughby,  we  part.     It  is  better  so." 

"Clara !  i  —one  last — one  holy  kiss  !" 

••  I:    these  poor  lips,  that  once  were  sweet  to  you.  .  .  ." 
The    kiss,   to  continue  the   Language  of  the  imaginative 
composition  of   his   time,  favourite  readings  in  which  had 
insp  5ir  Willoughby  with  a  colloquy  so  pathetic,  was 

imprint 

he  had  the  kiss,  and  no  mean  one.     It  was  intended 
to  swallow  every  •■  •  dwindling  attractiveness  out  of 

her,  and  there  was  a  bit   of  scandal  springing  of  it  in  the 
background  that  torily  settled  her  business,  and  left 

her 'enshrined  in  memory,  a  divine  recollection,  to  him,' as 
his  popular  romanc<  I  Bay,  and  have  said  for  years. 

Unhappily,  tl  lute  of   her   lips  encircled  him 

with   the   breathing  Clara.     She  rushed  up   from  vacancy 
a  wind  summoned  to  ;  a  stately  vessel. 

H  pie  had  thrown  him  into  severe  commotion.     The 


TEMPER  AND  POLICY.  219 

slave  of  a  passion  thinks  in  a  ring-,  as  hares  run:  he  will 
cease  where  he  began.  Her  sweetness  had  set  him  off,  and 
he  whirled  back  to  her  sweetness :  and  that  being  incalcu- 
lable and  he  insatiable,  you  have  the  picture  of  his  torments 
when  you  consider  that  her  behaviour  made  her  as  a  cloud 
to  him. 

Riding  slack,  horse  and  man,  in  the  likeness  of  those  two 
ajog  homeward  from  the  miry  hunt,  the  horse  pricked  his 
ears,  and  Willoughby  looked  down  from  his  road  along  the 
hills  on  the  race  headed  by  young  Crossjay  with  a  short 
start  over  Aspenwell  Common  to  the  ford.  There  was  no 
mistaking  who  they  were,  though  they  were  well-nioh  a 
mile  distant  below.  He  noticed  that  they  did  not  overtake 
the  boy.  They  drew  rein  at  the  ford,  talking  not  simply 
face  to  face,  but  face  in  face.  Willoughby 's  novel  feeling  of 
he  knew  not  what  drew  them  up  to  him,  enabling  him  to 
fancy  them  bathing  in  one  another's  eyes.  Then  she  sprang 
through  the  ford,  De  Craye  following,  but  not  close  after — 
and  why  not  close  ?  She  had  nicked  him  with  one  of  her 
peremptorily  saucy  speeches  when  she  was  bold  with  the 
gallop.  They  were  not  unknown  to  Willoughby.  They 
signified  intimacy. 

Last  night  he  had  proposed  to  De  Craye  to  take  Miss 
Middleton  for  a  ride  the  next  afternoon.  It  never  came  to 
his  mind  then  that  he  and  his  friend  had  formerly  been 
rivals.  He  wished  Clara  to  be  amused.  Policy  dictated 
that  every  thread  should  be  used  to  attach  her  to  her  resi- 
dence at  the  Hall  until  he  could  command  his  temper  to 
talk  to  her  calmly  and  overwhelm  her,  as  any  man  in  ear- 
nest, with  command  of  temper  and  a  point  of  vantage,  may 
be  sure  to  whelm  a  young  woman.  Policy,  adulterated  by 
temper,  yet  policy  it  was  that  had  sent  him  on  his  errand  in 
the  early  morning  to  beat  about  for  a  house  and  garden 
suitable  to  Dr.  Middleton  within  a  circuit  of  five,  six,  or 
seven  miles  of  Patterne  Hall.  If  the  Rev.  doctor  liked  the 
house  and  took  it  (and  Willoughby  had  seen  the  place  to 
suit  him),  the  neighbourhood  would  be  a  chain  upon  Clara  : 
and  if  the  house  did  not  please  a  gentleman  rather  hard  to 
please  (except  in  a  venerable  wine),  an  excuse  would  have 
been  started  for  his  visiting  other  houses,  and  he  had  the 
response  to  his  importunate  daughter,  that  he  believed  an 
excellent  house  was  on  view.     Dr.  Middleton  had  been  pre. 


220  i  in:  egoist. 

pared  by  numerous  hints  to  meet  Cain's  black  misreading 
nf  ii  lover's  quarrel,  so  thai  everything  looked  full  of  promise 
■       >•  as  Willoughby's  exercise  of  policy  went. 

i  the  strange  pang  travel  -iuL,r  him  now  convicted  him 
of  a  large  adulteration  of  profitless  temper  with  it.  The 
[ty  of  I>>'  Craye  to  a  friend,  where  ;i  woman  walked  in 
the  drama,  was  notorious.  It  was  there,  and  a  most  flexible 
1 1 1 i 1 1 lt  n  was:  and  it  soon  resembled  reason  manipulated  by 
Not  to  have  reckoned  on  his  peculiar  loyalty 
was  proof  of  the  blindness  cast  on  us  by  temper. 

And  De  Craye  had  an  [rish  tongue;  and  he  had  it  under 
that  he  Could  talk   good    sense  and   airy    nonsense 
at  di  a.     The  strongest  overboiling  of  English  1'nritan 

contempt  of  a  gabbler  would  not  stop  women  from  liking  it. 
lently  Clara  did  like  it,  and    Willoughby  thundered  on 
her  sex.     I  ch  brainless  things  as  these  do  we,  under 

tin-  irony  of  circumstances,  confide  our  honour ! 

For  he  was  no  gabbler.     He  remembered  having  rattled 
he    had   rattled    with    an    object    to    gain, 
ring  to  1"  for  an  easy,  careless,  vivacious,  charm- 

any  young  gentleman  may  be  who  gaily  wears 
the  gol  len  dish  of  Fifty  thousand  pounds  per  annum  nailed 
to  the  back  of  his  saintly  young  pate.     The  growth  of 

the  critical  spirit  in  him,  however,  had  informed   him  that 
g  had  b         i    principal  component  of  his  rattling;  and 
as  he  justly  supposed  it  a  betraying  art  for  his  race  and  for 
him,  he  passed  through  the  prim  and  the  yawning  phases  of 
i   indiffi  the   pure   Puritanism   of  a  leaden 

mpt  of  gabb 
Th(  girls  !     1  [ow  despicable  t  he 

Is!     at  least,  that  girl  below  there! 

Married  women  undersl I  bim:   widows  did.      He  placed 

handsome  and  flattering  young  widow  of  his 

Lad)   M  n".    Lewison,  beside  Clara  for  a  co'm- 

-  m,  involuntarily  ;   and  at  once,  in  a    flash,  in   despite  of 

him  i  he  would  rather  it  had  been  otherwise),  and  in  despite 

.ady  Mary's  high  birth  and  connections  as  well,  the  silver 

lustre  of  the  maid  sicklied  thi  widow. 

Tl  ■   of  the  luckless  comparison   was  to  produce  at* 

ima.  in  the  features  of  Clara  that  gave 

him  the  final,  i  -Mow.      .1.  invaded  him. 

He  had  1.  i  been  free  of  it.  regarding  jealousy  as  a 


TEMPER  AND  POLICY.  221 

foreign  devil,  the  accursed  familiar  of  the  vulgar.  Luckless 
fellows  might  be  victims  of  the  disease ;  he  was  not ;  and 
neither  Captain  Oxford,  nor  Vernon,  nor  He  Craye,  nor  any 
of  his  compeers,  had  given  him  one  shrewd  pinch  :  the 
woman  had,  not  the  man ;  and  she  in  quite  a  different 
fashion  from  his  present  wallowing  anguish  :  she  had  never 
pulled  him  to  earth's  level,  where  jealousy  gnaws  the 
grasses.  He  had  boasted  himself  above  the  humiliating 
visitation. 

If  that  had  been  the  case,  we  should  not  have  needed  to 
trouble  ourselves  much  about  him.  A  run  or  two  with  the 
pack  of  imps  would  have  satisfied  us.  But  he  desired  Clara 
Middleton  manfully  enough  at  an  intimation  of  rivalry  to 
be  jealous  ;  in  a  minute  the  foreign  devil  had  him,  he  was 
flame:  flaming-  verdigris,  one  might  almost  dare  to  say,  for 
an  exact  illustration  ;  such  was  actually  the  colour ;  but 
accept  it  as  unsaid. 

Ilemember  the  poets  upon  Jealousy.  It  is  to  be  haunted 
in  the  heaven  of  two  by  a  Third;  preceded  or  succeeded, 
therefore  surrounded,  embraced,  hugged  by  this  infernal 
Third  :  it  is  Love's  bed  of  burning  marl ;  to  see  and  taste 
the  withering  Third  in  the  bosjvm  of  sweetness;  to  be 
dragged  through  the  past  and  find  the  fair  Eden  of  it  sul- 
phurous ;  to  be  dragged  to  the  gates  of  the  future  and  glory 
to  behold  them  blood  :  to  adore  the  bitter  creature  trebly 
and  with  treble  power  to  clutch  her  by  the  windpipe  :  it  is 
to  be  cheated,  derided,  shamed,  and  abject  and  supplicating, 
and  consciously  demoniacal  in  treacherousness,  and  vic- 
toriously self-justified  in  revenge. 

And  still  there  is  no  change  in  what  men  feel,  though  in 
what  they  do  the  modern  may  be  judicious. 

You  know  the  many  paintings  of  man  transformed  to 
rageing  beast  by  the  curse:  and  this,  the  fieriest  trial  of  our 
egoism,  worked  in  the  Egoist  to  produce  division  of  himself 
from  himself,  a  concentration  of  his  thoughts  upon  another 
object,  still  himself,  but  in  another  breast,  which  had  to  be 
looked  at  and  into  for  the  discovery  of  him.  By  the  gaping 
jaw-chasm  of  his  greed  we  may  gather  comprehension  of 
his  insatiate  force  of  jealousy.  Let  her  go  ?  Not  though 
he  were  to  become  a  mark  of  public  scorn  in  strangling  her 
with   the  yoke !     His   concentration  was  marvellous.      Un- 


222  THE  EGOIST. 

t  .  t  ho  exorcise  of  imaginative  powers,  he;  nevertheless 
conjured  her  before  him  visually  till  his  eyeballs  ache  1. 
II.  saw  none  but  Clara,  bated  none,  loved  none,  save  the 
intolerable  woman.  What  logic  was  in  him  deduced  her  to 
be  individual  and  most  distinctive  from  the  circumstance 
that  only  she  had  ever  wroughl  these  pangs.  She  had 
made  him  ready  for  them,  as  we  know.  An  idea  of  De 
Crave  being  no  stranger  to  her  when  he  arrived  at  the 
Hall,  dashed  him  at  De  Craye  for  a  second:  it  might  be  or 
might  not  be  that  they  had  a  secret;— Clara  was  the  spell. 
So  prodigiously  did  he  love  and  bate,  thai  he  had  no  per- 
manent  sense  except  for  ber.  The  soul  of  him  writhed 
under  her  eyes  at  one  moment,  and  the  next  it  closed  on  her 
without  mercy.  She  was  his  possession  escaping;  his  own 
gliding  aw  ay  to  the  Third. 

There  would  be  pangs  for  him  too,  that  Third  !     Standing 
at  the  altar  to  see  her  t  a  si -boil  ml,  soul  an  1  body,  to  another, 
rood  roast  ing  tire. 

It  would  be  good  roasting  fire  for  her  too,  should  she  he 
averse.      To   conceive    her  aversion    was   to   burn    her   and 

•  ur    her.       She    would    then    be    his! — what   say    you? 
Burnt    ami    devoured!        Rivals    would    vanish     then.        Her 

tM  espouse  the  man  she   was  plighted  to,  would 

o  he  uttered,  cease  to  be  felt. 

At    last    he    believed    in    her    reluctance.       All    that    had 

1  to  bring  him  to  the  belief  was  the  scene  on  the 

mere  -park,  or  an  imagined  spark!     But 

the  pri  ;  the  Third,  was  necessary ;  other  vise  he  would 

himself  personally  distastefnl. 

Women  b  the  conditions  of  primitive  man, 

tol  us  higher  than  the  topmost  star.     But  it  is  as 

I.  i   them  tell   uj  what  we  are  to  them :    for  us, 

they  are  our  back  and  trout  of  life:    the  poet's  Lesbia,  the 

Be  tri  s   is  the  choice.     And  were  it  proved 

»f  the  bright  things  are  in  the  pay  of  Darkness, 

with  the  stamp  of  his  coin  on  their  palms, and  that  some  arc 

y  angels  we  hear  sung  of,  not  the  less  mighi  we  say 

•  they  lind  us  out.  they  have  us  by  our  leanings.     They 

•vliat   v.e   hold  t    or  worst  within.      By  their 

ir  civilization  judged  :    and   if  it  is  hugely  animal 

still,  ih  u  is  b(  uimitive  men  ah  rand  and  will  have  their 


TEMPER  AND  POLICY.  2'2'i 

pasture.  Since  tlie  lead  is  ours,  the  leaders  mnst  bow  their 
heads  to  the  sentence.  Jealousy  of  a  woman,  is  the  primi- 
tive egoism  seeking  to  refine  in  a  blood  gone  to  savagery 
under  apprehension  of  an  invasion  of  rights  ;  it  is  in  action 
the  tiger  threatened  by  a  rifle  when  his  paw  is  rigid  on 
quick  flesh  ;  he  tears  the  flesh  for  rage  at  the  intruder.  The 
Egoist,  who  is  our  original  male  in  giant  form,  had  no  bleed, 
ing  victim  beneath  his  paw,  but  there  was  the  sex  to  mangle. 
Much  as  he  prefers  the  well-behaved  among  women,  who  can 
worship  and  fawn,  and  in  whom  terror  can  be  inspired,  in 
his  wrath  he  would  make  of  Beatrice  a  Lesbia  Quadrantaria. 

She  must  be  sculptured  Griselda  with  him  not  in  her  soul 
to  suffer  the  change  ;  she  must  have  the  power  of  halting 
midway  between  celestially  good  and  brutishly.  But  let 
women  tell  us  of  their  side  of  the  battle.  We  are  not  so 
much  the  test  of  the  Egoist  in  them  as  they  to  us.  Move- 
ments of  similarity  shown  in  crowned  and  undiademed  ladies 
of  intrepid  independence,  suggest  their  occasional  capacity 
to  be  like  men  when  it  is  given  to  them  to  hunt.  At  present 
they  fly,  and  there  is  the  difference.  Our  manner  of  the 
chase  informs  them  of  us. 

Dimly  as  young  women  are  informed,  they  have  a  youthful 
ardour  of  detestation  that  renders  them  less  tolerant  of  the 
Egoist  than  their  perceptive  elder  sisters.  What  they  do 
perceive,  however,  they  have  a  redoubtable  grasp  of,  and 
Clara's  behaviour  would  be  indefensible  if  her  detective 
feminine  vision  might  not  sanction  her  acting  on  its  direction. 
Seeing  him  as  she  did,  she  turned  from  him  and  shunned  his 
house  as  the  antre  of  an  ogre.  She  had  posted  her-  letter  to 
Lucy  Darleton.  Otherwise,  if  it  had  been  open  to  her  to 
dismiss  Colonel  De  Craye,  she  might,  with  a  warm  kiss  to 
Vernon's  pupil,  have  seriously  thought  of  the  next  shrill 
steam-whistle  across  yonder  hills  for  a  travelling*  companion 
on  the  wa}r  to  her  friend  Lucy;  so  abhorrent  was  to  her  the 
putting  of  her  horse's  head  toward  the  Hall.  Oh,  the  break- 
ing of  bread  there!  It  had  to  be  gone  through  for  another 
day  and  more:  that  is  to  say,  forty  hours,  it  might  be  six 
and  forty  hours  !  and  no  prospect  of  sleep  to  speed  any  of 
them  on  wings ! 

Such  were  Clara's  inward  interjections  while  poor  Wil- 
loughby  burnt  himself  out  with  verdigris  flame  having  the 
savour  of  bad  metal,  till  the  hollow  of  his  breast  was  not 


'11  \  ']  LIE  EGOIST. 

nnlike  to  a  corroded  old  cuirass   found,  we  "will  assume,  by 

■    beams   in  a  digging  beside  green-mantled 

■•1  witli  a  strange  adhesive  con- 

II  iw    else    picture    the   sad    man? — the   cavity  felt 

v   to    him,   ;iii  1  bcavy ;  Rick    of   an  ancient  and  moj'tal 

.  i. it,  and  burning  ;  >1  -dinted  too ; 

\\   i  :  the  -  am-  hole 
Whence  fled  the  sonl  : 

-    sore;    im  for    aught   save    sluggish   agony;     a 

imen  and  t  be  issue  of  si  i  ife. 

Measurelessly  to  loathe  was  not  sufficient  to  save  him  from 

pain:   be  tried  it:  nor  to  despise;  he  went  to  a  depth  there 

The   Fact  that  she  whs  a  healthy  young  woman,  re- 

turned  to  the  surface  of  his  thoughts  like  the  murdered  body 

pitch  '1  into  the  river,  which  will  not  drown  aud  calls  upon 

i ! lements  of  dissolution  to  float  it.      11  is  grand  hereditary 

to   transmit   bis    i  wealth  and   name  to  a  s. did 

.-,  while  it  prom  if   d  him  in  his  loathing  aud  contempt 

nal  ire  mean  and  eph  compared  with  his,  attached 

.-  to  her  splendid  healthiness.     The  council  of 

rs,  who  ndant  he  was,  pointed  to  this  young  woman 

for  bis  mate.      II-    bad    wooed    her  with    the   idea   that  they 

■I      (»    >1 .as   healthy!     And  he  likewise;  but,  as 

bad   been   a   duel   between  two  clearly   designated  by 

quality  of  blood  to  bid  a  House  endure,  she  was  the  first  who 

lit  him  what  i<  was  to  have  sensations  of  bis  mortality, 

II  •  c  >  i!  1  ii"t  forgive  her.     It  seemed  to  him  consequently 

politic  to  continue  frigid  and   let  her  have  a  further  taste  of 

;  trning  wish    to  strain  her  in 

:ing  hi>  compassion. 
i  have  ha  1  your  ride  ?"  he  addressed  her  politely  in 
the  ibly  on  i  \u-  lawn. 

"  I  have  bad  m  Cla  a  replied. 

»le,  I  trusf 
'■  \  ble." 

blushl 
The  n   \t    ins  tan  I    h  in   conversation   with  Loetitia, 

qui  Btioning  her  upon  n  deje  :te  I  droop  of  ber  eyelashes. 
"I  am,  I  think.  institutionally  melancholy." 

lie    murmured    to    her:    '"1    believe    in   the    existence  of 


TEMPER  AND  POLICY.  225 

specifics,  and  not  far  to   seek,  for  all  our  ailments  except 
those  we  bear  at  the  hands  of  others." 

She  did  not  dissent. 

De  Craye,  whose  humour  for  being  convinced  that  Wil- 
loughby cared  about  as  little  for  ?#iss  Middleton  as  she  for 
him  was  nourished  by  his  immediate  observation  of  them, 
dilated  on  the  beauty  of  the  ride  and  his  fair  companion's 
equestrian  skill. 

'  You  should  start  a  travelling  circus,"  Willoughby  re- 
joined. 

"  But  the  idea's  a  worthy  one  ! — There's  another  alternative 
to  the  expedition  I  proposed,  Miss  Middleton,"  taid  De  Craye. 
"  And  I  be  clown  ?  I  haven't  a  scruple  of  objection.  I  must 
read  up  books  of  jokes." 

"  Don't,"  said  Willoughby. 

"I'd  spoil  my  part!  But  a  natural  clown  won't  keep  up 
an  artificial  performance  for  an  entire  month,  you  see ;  which 
is  the  length  of  time  we  propose.  He'll  exhaust  his  nature 
in  a  day  and  be  bowled  over  by  the  dullest  regular  donkey- 
engine  with  paint  on  his  cheeks  and  a  nodding-topknot." 

"  What  is  this  expedition  '  we  '  propose  ?" 

De  Craye  was  advised  in  his  heart  to  spare  Miss  Middleton 
any  allusion  to  honeymoons. 

"  Merely  a  game  to  cure  dulness." 

"  Ah,"  Willoughby  acquiesced.     "  A  month,  you  said  ?" 

"  One'd  like  it  to  last  for  years  !" 

"  Ah  !  You  are  driving  one  of  Mr.  Merriman's  witticisms 
at  me,  Horace ;  I  am  dense." 

Willoughby  bowed  to  Dr.  Middleton  and  drew  him  from 
Vernon,  filially  taking  his  arm  to  talk  with  him  closely. 

De  Craye  saw  Clara's  look  as  her  father  and  Willoughby 
■went  aside  thus  linked. 

It  lifted  him  over  anxieties  and  casuistries  concerning 
loyalty.  Powder  was  in  the  look  to  make  a  warhorse  breatho 
high  and  shiver  for  the  signal. 


226  1 1 1 K  EGOIST. 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

CONTAINS  AN  INSTANCE  OF  THE  GENEROSITY  OF  WILLOUGHBY. 

I  I  SYEB9  of  a  gathering  complication  and  a  character  in 
action  commonly  resemhle  gleaners  who  are  intent  only  on 
picking  op  the  i  ars  of  grain  and  huddling  their  store.  Dis- 
interestedly or  interestedly  they  was  over-eager  Eor  the  little 
trifles,  and  make  too  much  of  them.  Observers  should  begin 
upon  the  precept,  that  not  all  we  see  is  worth  hoarding,  and 
that  the  things  we  see  are  to  be  weighed  in  the  scale  with 
■what  we  know  of  the  situation,  before  we  commit  ourselves 
1,,  a  measurement.  And  they  may  be  accurate  observers 
without  being  good  judges.  They  do  not  think  so,  and 
their  bent  is  to  glean  hurriedly  and  form  conclusions  as 
..  when  their  business  should  be  sift  at  each  step,  and 
question. 

Miss  Dale  seconded  Vernon  Whitford  in  the  occupation  of 

counting   looks  and   tone-,  and   noting  scraps   of  dialogue. 

She  was  quite  disinterested  ;  he  quite  believed  thai  he  was; 

his  degree  they   were   competent    for  their  post;    and 

neither  of  them  imagined  they  could  he  personally  involved 

in  the  dubi  i   of  the  scenes  they  witnessed.     They 

were   but    anxious    observers,    diligently   collecting.      She 

teptible  to  his  advice:  he  had   fancied  it, 

and  was  considering  it  one  of  his  vanities.      Each   mentally 

pared  Clara's  abruptness  in  taking  them  into  her  i 

tidei with   Imp  abstention  from   any  secret  word  since   the 

I    De   Crave.      Sir  Willoughby  requested 
I.  Middleton  as  much  of  her  company  as 
:ld;    showing   that    he    was   on   the   alert.      Another 
1                     Durham  ted   beating  her  wings   for  flight. 
The    Buddi              of    the  evident    intimacy   between    Clara 
1  olonel    De   Craye    shocked   Lsetitia :    their   acquaint- 
ed   I mputed  by    hours.      Yet  at  their    first  in- 
terview  she    had  the   possibility  of  worse  than 
•     n  sup]                     :  and  she  had  begged  Vernon  not 
immediately  to  quit   the   II. ill.  in  consequence  of  that  faint 
8    ••  had   b(  «  D  l<  d   to  it  by  meeting  Clara  and  De 
1      ye  at  her  cottage-gate,  and  finding  them  as  fluent  and 


THE  GENEROSITY  OP  WILLOUGITBY.  227 

laughter-breathing  in  conversation  as  friends.  Unable  to 
realize  the  rapid  advance  to  a  familiarity,  more  ostensible 
than  actual,  of  two  lively  natures,  after  such  an  introduction 
as  they  had  undergone  :  and  one  of  the  two  pining  in  a 
drought  of  liveliness  :  Laetitia  listened  to  their  wager  of 
nothing  at  all — a  no  against  a  yes — in  the  case  of  poor 
Flitch  ;  and  Clara's,  '  Willoughby  will  not  forgive  :'  and  De 
Craye's  :  '  Oh  !  he's  human :'  and  the  silence  of  Clara  :  and 
De  Craye's  hearty  cry:  '  Flitch  shall  be  a  gentleman's  coach- 
man in  his  old  seat  again,  or  I  haven't  a  tongue!'  to  which 
there  was  a  negative  of  Clara's  head: — and  it  then  struck 
Lnetitia  that  this  young  betrothed  lady,  whose  alienated 
heart  acknowledged  no  lord  an  hour  earlier,  had  met  her 
match,  and,  as  the  observer  would  have  said,  her  destiny. 
She  judged  of  the  alarming  possibility  by  the  recent  revela- 
tion to  herself  of  Miss  Middleton's  character,  and  by  Clara's 
having  spoken  to  a  man  as  well  (to Vernon),  and  previously. 
That  a  young  lady  should  speak  on  the  subject  of  the  inner 
holies  to  a  man,  though  he  were  Vernon  Whitford,  was  in- 
credible to  Lostitia ;  but  it  had  to  be  accepted  as  one  of  the 
dread  facts  of  our  inexplicable  life,  which  drag  our  bodies  at 
their  wheels  and  leave  our  minds  exclaiming.  Then,  if  Clara 
could  speak  to  Vernon,  which  Laetiua  won  Id  not  have  done 
for  a  mighty  bribe,  she  could  speak  to  De  Craye,  Lastitia 
thought  deductively :  this  being  the  logic  of  untrained  heads 
opposed  to  the  proceeding  whereby  their  condemnatory  de- 
duction hangs. — Clara  must  have  spoken  to  De  Craye! 

Laetitia  remembered  how  winning  and  prevailing  Miss 
Middleton  could  be  in  her  confidences.  A  gentleman  hearing 
her  might  forget  his  duty  to  his  friend,  she  thought,  for  she 
had  been  strangely  swayed  by  Clara:  ideas  of  Sir  Willoughby 
that  she  had  never  before  imagined  herself  to  entertain,  had 
been  sown  in  her,  she  thought ;  not  asking  herself  whether 
the  searchingness  of  the  young  lady  had  struck  them  and 
bidden  them  rise  from  where  they  lay  embedded.  Very 
gentle  women  take  in  that  manner  impressions  of  persons, 
especially  of  the  worshipped  person,  wounding  them;  like 
the  new  fortifications  with  embankments  of  soft  earth,  where 
explosive  missiles  bury  themselves  harmlessly  until  they 
are  plucked  out;  and  it  may  be  a  reason  why  those  injured 
ladies  outlive  a  Clara  Middleton  similarly  battered. 

Vernon  less  than  Lastitia  took  into  account  that  Clara  wag 

Q2 


Tin:  BOO  J  ST. 

in  H  r1  '  scarcely  reasonable.     Her  confidences  to 

he  had  excused,  a->  a  piece  of  conduct,  in  sympathy  with 
her  position      He  had   no!    been   greatly  astonished   by  the 
confided;    and,    oa    the    whol<  -lie   was 

ted  :m<l  unhappy,  he  excused  her  thoroughly ;  he  could 
her:    it  was  natural  thai  she  should  come  to 
him,  brave  in  her  to  speak  bo  frankly,  a  compliment  that  she 
should  condescend  to   treal   him  as  a   friend.     Her  position 
ised  her  widely.     Bui  she  was  nol  i  1  for  making  a 

fidential  friend  <>f  I  ><■  <  Iraye.     There  was  a  difference. 
Well,  t  he  difference  was,  t  hat  De  ( 'raye  had  not  the  smart- 
in.'  sense  of  honour  with  women  which  our  meditator  had : 
an  impartial  judiciary,  it  will  lie  seen  :  and  he  diseriminated 
if  and  the  other  justly :  hut  sensation  surging 
to  hi-  brail  same  instant,  he  reproached  Miss  Middleton 

•    perceiving  thai   difference  as  clearly,  before  she  De- 
position to    De   Craye,   which    Vernon  assumed 
thai  she  had  done.     Of  course  he  did      She  had  been  guilty 
:    why,  then,   in    the   mind  of  an  offended  friend, 
she    would    h.-    guilt}     of    it    twice.      There    was    evidence. 
Ladies,  fatally  predestined  to  appeal  to  that    from  which 
:■>  be  puarde  1,  musl  t   severity  when  they 

i  their  railed  highroad:    justice  is  out  of  the  question  : 

a  brains  might,  b  I  cannot  administer  it  to  them. 

J:     chilling   him   to   the   hone,  they  may  get  what  they  cry 
a    method    deadening   to    their    point    of 
l 

In  the  evening  Miss  Middleton  and  the  colonel  sang  a 
duet.  She  had  of  late  declined  to  sing.  Her  voice  was 
;  bly  firm.     Sir   Willoughby  said  to  her,  "You  have 

I  your  richness  of  tone,  (Mara."  She  smiled  and 
appeared  happy  in  pleasing  him.  He  named  a  French 
ballad  S  m  to  the  music-rack  and  gave  the  song 
unasked.  He  should  have  been  satisfied,  for  she  said  to 
him  at  the  finish:  "Is  1  -  you  like  it?"      He   hroke 

from    a   murmur  to  Miss    Dale:    "Admirable."     Someone 
mentioned    a    Tuscan    popular    canzone.      She   waited    for 
Willoughby'a  approval,  and  took  his  nod  for  a  mandate. 
Train-.  bellowed. 

He  had  i  this  characteristic  of  caressing  obedience 

at  the  v.  Ji,-  had  in  liis  time  profited 

hy  it. 


THE  GENEROSITY  OF  WILLOUG1IBT.  22d 

•*  Is  it  intuitively  or  by  their  experience  that  our  neigh- 
bours across  Channel  surpass  us  in  the  knowledge  of  your 
sex  ?"  he  said  to  Miss  Dale  and  talked  through  Clara's 
apostrophe  to  the  '  Santissima  Virgine  Maria,'  still  treating 
temper  as  a  part  of  policy,  without  any  effect  on  Clara ;  and 
that  was  matter  for  sickly  green  reflections.  The  lover  who 
cannot  wound  has  indeed  lost  anchorage;  he  is  woefully 
adrift :  he  stabs  air,  which  is  to  stab  himself.  Her  com- 
placent proof-armour  bids  him  know  himself  supplanted. 

During  the  short  conversational  period  before  the  ladies 
retired  for  the  night.  Miss  Eleanor  alluded  to  the  wedding  by 
chance.  Miss  Isabel  replied  to  her,  and  addressed  an  inter- 
rogation to  Clara.  De  Craye  foiled  it  adroitly.  Clara  did 
not  utter  a  syllable.  Her  bosom  lifted  to  a  wavering  height 
and  sank.  Subsequently  she  looked  at  De  Craye,  vacantly, 
like  a  person  awakened,  but  she  looked.  She  was  astonished 
by  his  readiness,  and  thankful  for  the  succour.  .  Her  look 
was  cold,  wide,  unfixed,  with  nothing  of  gratitude  or  of  per- 
sonal in  it.  The  look  however  stood  too  long  for  Willoughby's 
endurance.  Ejaculating:  "Porcelain!"  he  uncrossed  his  legs: 
a  signal  for  the  ladies  Eleanor  and  Isabel  to  retire.  Vernon 
bowed  to  Clara  as  she  was  rising.  He  had  not  been  once  in 
her  eyes,  and  he  expected  a  partial  recognition  at  the  good- 
night. She  said  it,  turning  her  head  to  Miss  Isabel,  who  was 
condoling  once  more  with  Colonel  De  Craye  over  the  ruins 
of  his  wedding-present,  the  porcelain  vase,  which  she  sup- 
posed to  have  been  in  Willoughby's  mind  when  he  displayed 
the  signal.  Vernon  walked  off  to  his  room,  dark  as  one 
smitten  blind  :  bile  tumet  jecur  :  her  stroke  of  neglect  hit 
him  there  where  a  blow  sends  thick  obscuration  upon  eye- 
balls and  brain  alike. 

Clara  saw  that  she  was  paining  him  and  regretted  it  when 
they  were  separated.  That  was  her  real  friend!  But  he 
prescribed  too  hard  a  task.  Besides  she  had  done  everything 
he  demanded  of  her,  except  the  consenting  to  stay  where  she 
was  and  wear  out  Willoughby,  whose  dexterity  wearied  her 
small  stock  of  patience.  She  had  vainly  tried  remonstrance 
and  supplication  with  her  father  hoodwinked  by  his  host, 
she  refused  to  consider  how  :  through  wine  ? — the  thought 
was  repulsive. 

Nevertheless  she  was  drawn  to  the  edge  of  it  bv  the  con- 
templation  of  her  scheme  of  release.     If  Lucy  Darleton  was 


THE   EGOIST. 

-.it  1 1 . »t r  1  «-* :  if  Lucy  invited  her  to  come:  if  she  flew  to  Lncy : 
Oh!  then  her  father  would  have  cause  for  anger.     He  would 
ber  thai  bul  for  hateful  wine  !  .  .  .  . 
What  was  there  in  this  wine  of  greal  age  which  expelled 
onableness,  fatherliness  ?     Ee  was  her  dear  father:  she 
was  his  beloved  child:  yet  something  divided  them;  some- 
thing closed,  her  father's  ears  to  her:  and  could  it  be  that 
aprehensible  seduction  of  the  wine?     Her  dutifulness 
cried  violently  no.     ^he  bowed,  stupefied,  to  his  arguments 
for  remaining  awhile,  and  rose  clear-headed  and  rebellious 
with  the  reminiscence  of  the  many  strong  reasons  she  had 
urged  against  them. 

The  Btrai  of  men,  young  and  old,  the  little  things 

(she  ed  a  grand  wine  as  a  little  thing)  twisting  and 

changing  thein,  amazed  her.  And  these  are  they  by  whom 
women  are  aliased  for  variability!  (  Inly  the  most  imperious 
,  never  mean  trifles,  move  women,  thought  she.  Would 
women  do  an  injury  to  one  they  loved  for  oceans  of  that — 
ah  !  pah  ! 

And  women  must  respect  men.     They  necessarily  respect 

ther.    "My  dear,  dear  father!'    Clara  said  in  the  solitude 

of  her  chamber,  musing  on  all  his  goodness,  and  she  endea- 

voir  Qcile  the  d  entiments  of  the  position 

1  her  to  sustain,  with  those  of  a  venerating  daughter. 

The   blow  which  was  to  fall  on  him  beat  on  her  heavily  in 

advai  "  1   have  not  one  excuse!"  she  said,  glancing  at 

numbers  and  a  mighty  one.  Bui  the  idea  of  her  father  suffer- 

in-,'  at  her  hands  casl  her  down    lower  than  self-jus;  ilieat  ion. 

aght    to    imagine   herself   sparing  him.     It  was  too 

liet  itii 

The  sanctuary  of  her  chamber,  the  pnre  white  room  so 

her  maidenly  feelings,  whispered  peace,  only  to 

foil  •    whis;  i  h    another  that   went  through  her 

ling  to  ■  r.  and   leaving   her  as  a  string  of  music 

unkindly  smitten,     [f  shi  I  in  tins  house  her  chamber 

would  no  longer  be  a  Banctuary.     Dolorous  bondage !     Inso- 

ath    is   not    worse.     Death's   worm    we  cannot  keep 

•   ..hen  he  has  as  we  are  numb  to  dishonour,  happily 

Youth    w<  eyelids    to   sleep,    though    she   was 

quivering,  and    quivering  she  awoke   to   the  sound  of  her 
name   beneath    her   window.      "  I   can   love   still,    for  I   love 


THE  GENEROSITY  OF  WILLOUGHBY.  231 

him,"  she  said,  as  she  luxuriated  in  young  -Cross] ay's  boy's 
voice,  again  envying  him  his  bath  in  the  lake  waters,  which 
seemed  to  her  to  have  the  power  to  wash  away  grief  and 
chains.  Then  it  was  that  she  resolved  to  let  Crossjay  see 
the  last  of  her  in  this  place.  He  should  be  made  gleeful 
by  doing  her  a  piece  of  service  ;  he  should,  escort  her  on  her 
walk  to  the  railway  station  next  morning,  thence  be  sent 
flying  for  a  long  clay's  truancy,  with  a  little  note  of  apology 
on  his  behalf  that  she  would  write  for  him  to  deliver  to 
Vernon  at  right. 

Crossjay  came  running  to  her  after  his  breakfast  with  Mrs. 
Montague,  the  housekeeper,  to  tell  her  he  had  called  her  up. 

"  You  won't  to-morrow  :  I  shall  be  up  far  ahead  of  you," 
said  she;  and  musing  on  her  father,  while  Crossjay  vowed 
to  be  up  the  first,  she  thought  it  her  duty  to  plunge  into 
another  expostulation. 

Willoughy  had  need  of  Vernon  on  private  affairs.  Dr. 
Middleton  betook  himself  as  usual  to  the  library,  after 
answering  :  "  1  will  ruin  you  yet,"  to  Wiliougliby's  liberal 
offer  to  despatch  an  order  to  London  for  any  books  he  might 
want. 

His  fine  unruffled  air,  as  of  a  mountain  in  still  morning 
beams,  made  Clara  not  indisposed  to  a  preliminary  scene 
with  WillougTiby  that  might  save  her  from  distressing  him, 
bat  she  could  not  stop  Willoughhy;  as  little  could  she  look 
an  invitation.  He  stood  in  the  Hall,  holding  Vernon  by  the 
arm.  She  passed  him ;  he  did  not  speak,  and  she  entered 
the  library: 

"What  now,  my  dear  ?  what  is  it?"  said  Dr.  Middleton, 
seeing  that  the  door  was  shut  on  them. 

"  Nothing,  papa,"  she  replied  calmly. 

"  You've  not  locked  the  door,  my  child  ?  You  turned 
something  there:  try  the  handle." 

"  I  assure  you,  papa,  the  door  is  not  locked." 

"  Mr.  Whitford  will  be  here  instantly.  We  are  engaged 
on  tough  matter.  Women  have  not,  and  opinion  is  universal 
that  they  never  will  have,  a  conception  of  the  value  of 
time." 

"  We  are  vain  and  shallow,  my  dear  papa." 

"  No,  no,  not  you,  Clara.     But  I  suspect  you  to  require  to 

■•earn  by  having  work  in  progress  how  important  is  ...  . 

,1  a  quiet  commencement  of  the  day's  task.     There  is  not  a 


2.12  1  hi:  BGOIST. 

Bcholar  who  will  nol  tell  you  so.  We  must  have  a  retreat. 
These  invasions!  So  yon  intend  to  have  another  ride 
:  ,  \ -  r  They  do  you  good.  To-morrow  we  dine  with 
Mrs.  Mountstuart  Jenkinson,  an  estimable  person  indeed, 
though  I  do  t i ■  •  r  perfectly  understand  our  accepting. — You 
not  to  accuse  me  of  sitting  over  wine  last  night,  my 
Clara  !  I  never  do  it,  unless  I  am  appealed  to  for  my  judge- 
ment upon  a  wine." 

"  I  have  (Mine  to  entreat  you  to  take  me  away,  papa." 

In  the  midst  of  the  storm  aroused  by  this  renewal  of  per- 
plexity,  Dr.  Middleton  replaced  a  book  his  elbow  had 
knocked  over  in  Ins  haste  to  dash  the  hair  off  his  forehca  I, 
crying:  "Whither?  To  what  spot?  That  reading  of 
I  Le-books,  and  idle  people's  notes  of  Travel,  and  pic- 
turesque correspondence  in  the  newspapers,  unsettles  man 
and  maid.  My  objection  to  the  living  in  hotels  is  known. 
I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  I  do  cordially  abhor  it.  I  have 
had  penitentially  to  submit  to  it  in  your  dear  mother's  time, 
Kai  rpifTcaKobaifiufv  up  to  the  lull  ten  thousand  times.  But 
will  you  not  comprehend  that  to  the  older  man  his  miseries 
are  multiplied  by  his  years!  But  is  it  utterly  useless  to 
solicit  your  sympathy  with  an  old  man,  Clara?" 
■  neral  Darleton  will  take  us  in,  papa." 

"  His  table  is  detestable.  I  say  nothing  of  that;  but  his 
wine  is  poison.  Let  that  pass  —  I  should  rather  say,  let  it 
l  -  but  our  political  dews  are  not  in  accord.     True, 

we  a  '   under  the  obligation  to   propound   them  in  pre- 

•■.  but  we  are  d  te  of  an  opinion  in  common.     We 

have  no  <ii-  i       Military  men  hire  produced,  or  diverged 

in.  noteworthy  epicures,  they  are  often  devout;  they  have 
M'. --limed  in  lettered  men:  they  are  gentlemen  ;  the  country 
rightly  holds  them  in  honour;  but,  in  line,  I  reject  the  pro- 
I      il  to  go  to  Genera]  Darleton. — Tears?" 

■■  No,  pa  pa." 

"I    do    hope   not.      Here    we    have    everything  man  can 
without  contest,  an  i  enl    host.     You  have  your 

transitory  tea-cup  tempests,  which  you  magnify  to  hur- 
ricanes, in  the  approved  historic  manner  of  the  book  of 
Cupid.  And  all  the  better;  I  repeat,  it  is  the  better  that 
should  have  them  over  in  the  infancy  of  the  alliance. 
Tome  in  !'  Dr.  Middleton  shouted  cheerily  in  response  to  a 
knock  at  the  d 


THE  GENEROSITY  OP  W1LLOUGIIBY.  233 

He  feared  the  door  was  locked:  he  had  a  fear  that  his 
daughter  intended  to  keep  it  locked. 

"  Clara  !"  he  cried. 

She  reluctantly  turned  the  handle,  and  the  ladies  Eleanor 
and  Isabel  came  in,  apologizing-  with  as  much  coherence  as 
Dr.  Middleton  ever  expected  from  their  sex.  They  wished 
to  speak  to  Clara,  hut  they  declined  to  take  her  away.  In 
vain  the  Rev.  doctor  assured  them  she  was  at  their  service; 
they  protested  that  they  had  very  few  words  to  say  and 
would  not  intrude  one  moment  further  than  to  speak  them. 

Like  a  shy  deputation  of  young  scholars  before  the  master, 
these  very  words  to  come  were  preceded  by  none  at  all  ;  a 
dismal  and  trying  pause;  refreshing  however  to  Dr.  Mid- 
dleton, who  joyfully  anticipated  that  the  ladies  could  be 
induced  to  take  away  Clara  when  they  had  finished. 

"We  may  appear  to  you  a  little  formal,"  Miss  Isabel 
began,  and  turned  to  her  sister. 

"  We  have  no  intention  to  lay  undue  weight  on  our  mission. 
if  mission  it  can  be  called,"  said  Miss  Eleanor. 

"  Is  it  entrusted  to  you  by  Willoughby  ?  "  said  Clara. 

"  Dear  child,  that  you  may  know  it  all  the  more  earnest 
with  us,  and  our  personal  desire  to  contribute  to  your  hap- 
piness :  therefore  does  Willoughby  entrust  the  speaking  of 
it  to  us." 

Hereupon  the  sisters  alternated  in  addressing  Clara,  and 
she  «-a:— jd  from  one  to  the  other,  piecing  fragments  of  empty 
signification  to  get  the  full  meaning  when  she  might. 

" — And  in  saying,  your  happiness,  dear  Clara,  we  have 
our  Willoughby 's  in  view,  which  is  dependent  on  yours." 

" — And  we  never  could  sanction  that  our  own  inclinations 
should  stand  in  the  way." 

" — No.  We  love  the  old  place  :  and  if  it  were  only  our 
punishment  for  loving  it  too  idolatrously,  we  should  deem  it 
ground  enough  for  our  departure." 

" — Without,  really,    an    idea   of   unkindness ;     none,    not 


any. 

" — Young  wives  naturally  prefer  to  be  undisputed  queens 
of  their  own  establishment." 

" — Youth  and  age  !  " 

"  But  I,"  said  Clara,  "have  never  mentioned,  never  had  a 
thought  .   .   .   ." 

-You  have,  dear  child,  a  lover  who  in  his  solicitude  for 


23  I  THE  EGOIST. 

your  happiness  t>oth  sees  what  yon  desire  find  what  is  due  to 
you." 

" — And  for  us,  Clara,  to  recognize  what  is  due  to  you   is 
to  ad  "ii  it." 

«_  Besides,  dear,  a  sea-side  cottage  lias  always  been  one 
of  our  dreams." 

" — We  have  not  to  learn  that  we  are  a  couple  of   old 

maids,  incongruous  associates   for  a  young  wife  in  the  go- 

iment  of  a  great  house." 

" — With    our   antiquated  notions,   questions  of  domestio 

management  might   arise,  and  with  the  best   will   in   the 

world  to  be  harmonious  !  .  .  .  ." 

" — So,  dear  Clara,  consider  ii  settled." 
" — From  time  to  time  gladly  shall  we  be  your  guests." 
" — Your  guests,  dear,  not  censorious  critics." 
"  And  yon  think  me  such  an  Egoist! — dear  ladies  !      The 
tion  of  so  cruel  a  piece  of  selfishness  wounds  me.     I 
have  had  you  leave  the  Hall.     I  like  your  society; 
1  respect   you.     My  complaint,  if  I  had  one,  would  be,  that 
you    do  liently  assert    yourselves.      I   could   have 

wished  you  to  be  here  for  an  example  to  me.  I  would  not 
have  allowed  you  to  go.  Whal  can  he  think  me! — Did 
Willoughby  Bpeak  of  it  this  morning?" 

Ii  was  hard  to  distinguish  which  was  the  completer  dupe 
of  these  two  echoes  of  one  another  in  worship  of  a  family 
idol. 

lougbby,"   Miss    Eleanor  presented    herself    to    be 

aped    with    the  title  hanging  ready    for   the   first   that 

should  open  her  lips,  "  our  Willoughby  is  observant     he  is 

rous — and    he    is    not    less    forethoughtful.      His 

arrangement  i  ir  good  on  all  sides." 

'"  An  ind  h,"  said  .Miss  Isabel,  appearing  in  her 

turn  the  monster  dupe. 

will  in >t   have  to  have,  dear  ladies.    Were  I  mistress 
here  I  Bhould  oppose  it." 

•  Willoughby    blames    himsi    .     for   not    reassuring    ymi 

1 1  dee  1  we  blame  ourselves  for  not  undertaking  to  go." 
"  Did  he  speak  of  it  first  this  morning  ?  "  said  Clara;  but 
d  draw  7m  reply  to  that  from   them.      They  resumed 
the  duet,  and  she  resigned   herself  to  have  her  ears  boxed 
with  nonsense. 


THE  GENEROSITY  OF  WILLOUGHBY. 


235 


"  So,  it  is  understood  ?  "  said  Miss  Eleanor. 

"I  see  your  kindness,  ladies." 

"And  I  am  to  be  Aunt  Eleanor  again  ?  " 

"  And  I  Aunt  Isabel  ?  " 

Clara  coald  have  wrung  her  bands  at  tbe  impediment 
which  prohibited  her  delicacy  from  telling  them  why  she 
could  not  name  them  so,  as  she  had  done  in  the  earlier 
days  of  Willoughby's  courtship.  She  kissed  them  warmly, 
ashamed  of  kissing,  though  the  warmth  was  real. 

They  retired  with  a  flow  of  excuses  to  Dr.  Middleton  for 
disturbing  him.  He  stood  at  the  door  to  bow  them  out,  and 
holding  the  door  for  Clara  to  wind  up  the  procession,  dis- 
covered her  at  a  far  corner  of  the  room. 

He  was  debating  upon  the  adviseability  of  leaving  her 
there,  when  Vernon  Whitford  crossed  the  hall  from  the 
laboratory  door,  a  mirror  of  himself  in  his  companion  air  of 
discomposure. 

That  was  not  important,  so  long  as  Vernon  was  a  check 
on  Clara ;  but  the  moment  Clara,  thus  baffled,  moved  to 
quit  the  library,  Dr.  Middleton  felt  the  horror  of  having  an 
uncomfortable  face  opposite. 

"  No  botheration,  I  hope  ?  It's  the  worst  thing  possible 
to  work  on.  Where  have  you  been?  I  suspect  your  weak 
point  is  not  to  arm  yourself  in  triple  brass  against  bother 
and  worry  ;  and  no  good  work  can  you  do  unless  you  do. 
You  have  come  out  of  that  laboratory." 

"  I  have,  sir. — Can  I  get  you  any  book  ?  "  Vernon  said  to 
Claia. 

She  thanked  him,  promising  to  depart  immediately. 

"Now  you  are  at  the  section  of  Italian  literature,  my  love," 
said  Dr.  Middleton.  "  Well,  Mr.  Whitford,  the  laboratory 
— ah  ! — where  the  amount  of  labour  done  within  the  space 
of  a  vear  would  not  stretch  an  electric  current  between  this 
Hall  and  the  railway  station  :  say,  four  miles,  which  I  pre- 
sume the  distance  to  be.  Well  sir,  a  dilettantism  costly  in 
time  and  machinery  is  as  ornamental  as  foxes'  tails  and 
deers'  horns  to  an  independent  gentleman  whose  fellows  are 
contented  with  the  latter  decorations  for  their  civic  wreath. 
Willoughby,  let  me  remark,  has  recently  shown  himself 
most  considerate  for  my  girl.  As  far  as  I  could  gather — I 
have  been  listening  to  a  dialogue  of  ladies — he  is  as 
generous   as  he  is  discreet.     There  are  certain  combats  in 


Tin:  EOOIE  i. 

which  to  be  the  one  to  succumb  ie  to  claim  the  honours;— * 

ami   thai   is   what    women   will  not   learn.      I  doubt   their 

he  glory  of  it." 

••  I  beard  of  it;    I    have  been    with    Willoughby," 

s : i  i - 1    hastily,   to   shield    Clara  from    her    father's 

allnsive  attacks,      fie  wished    to   convey    to   her   that    his 

interview   with   Willonghbj    had  no!    been  profitable  in  her 

intei  and   that    Bhe    bad    better  at   oner,    having   him 

•    to  support    her,   | r  out  her  whole   hearl    to    her 

father      Bui  how  was  it  to  be  <  d?      She   would  not 

iii.it  hie  ■         and  he  was  too  ] r  an  intriguer  to  be  ready 

on  the  instant  to  deal  ont  the  verbal  obscurities  which  are 
I 

•  I  sh  it,  if  Willoughby  has  annoyed  yon,  for  he 

stands  high  in  my  favour,"  Baid  Dr.  Middleton. 

Clara  dropped  a  ln.uk.     Her  father  started  higher  than 
ipulse  warranted  in  his  chair.      Vernon  tried 
to  win  a  glance,  and  Bhe  was  conscious  of  his  effort,  hut  her 
angry  and  guilty  feelings  prompting  her  resolution  to  follow 
her  own  counsel,  kepi  her  eyelids  on  the  defensive. 
••I    don't   say   he  annoys   me,  sir.     I  am  here  to  give  him 
and  if  he  does  no!   accept  it  I  have  no  right  to  be 
annoyed.    Willoughby  Beems  annoyed  that  Colonel  De  Crave 
.  talk  of  going  to-morrow  or  next  day." 
■•  lie  likes  his  friends  abont  him.     Upon  my  word,  a  man 
■  it   you  might  march   a   day  without 
finding.     But  von  have  it  on  the  forehead,  Mr.  Whitford." 
••  Oh  !    no,  Bi 

"There,'    Dr.  Middleton  drew  his  tinker  along  his  brows. 

V.      on  f(  mi.  and   (Mined  an  excuse  for  their 

aaware  that   thi         ection  of  his  mind  toward 

'        a    pushed   him   to  a   kind   of  clumsy   double    meaning, 

v,  hi  •  an  inward  and  craving  wrath,  as  Lesaid: 

'  ing  my  head  ;   J  must  appljr 

I   have  b   li   e,  and  I  am  uncertain  of  the  ran  of 

Wil  a  think  ? — 

'In    \         •  .  b  he  i  si  nates: ' 

that  h<  y  man  of  us  at  donkey-dialect.*' 

val  for  the  genius  of  criticism  to  Beem 
t"  li  inder  his  frown,  Dr.  Middleton  rejoined 


THE  FLIGHT  IN  WILD  WEATHER.  237 

with  sober  jocularity  :  "No,  sir,  it  will  not  pass,  and  your 
uncertainty  in  regard  to  the  run  of  the  line  would  only  be 
extended  were  the  line  centipedal.  Our  recommendation  is, 
that  you  erase  it  before  the  arrival  of  the  ferule.  This 
misrht  do : — 


-O' 


1  In  Assignation's  name  lie  assignats: ' 

signifying',  that  he  pre-eminently  flourishes  hypothetical 
promises  to  pay  by  appointment.  That  might  pass.  But 
you  will  forbear  to  cite  me  for  your  authority." 

"The  line  would  be  acceptable  if  I  could  get  it  to  apply," 
said  Vernon. 

"  Or  this  .  .  .  .  Dr.   Middleton  was   offering  a  second 

suggestion,  but  Clara  fled,  astonished  at  men  as  she  never 
yet  had  been.  Why,  in  a  burning  world  they  would  be 
exercising  their  minds  in  absurdities  !  And  those  two  were 
scholars,  learned  men  !  And  both  knew  they  were  in  the 
presence  of  a  soul  in  a  tragic  fever ! 

A  minute  after  she  had  closed  the  door  they  were  deep  in 
their  work.     Dr.  Middleton  forgot  his  alternative  line. 

"Nothing  serious?"  he  said  in  reproof  of  the  want  of 
honourable  clearness  on  Vernon's  brows. 

"  I  trust  not,  sir  :  it's  a  case  for  common  sense." 

"  And  you  call  that  not  serious  ?  " 

"I  take  Hermann's  praise  of  the  versus  dochmiachus  to  be 
not  only  serious  but  unexaggerated,"  said  Vernon. 

Dr.  Middleton  assented  and  entered  on  the  voiceful  ground 
of  Greek  metres,  shoving  your  dry  dusty  world  from  his 
elbows. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  FLIGHT  IN  WILD  WEATHER. 

The  morning  of    Lucy  Darleton's  letter  of  reply  to   her 
friend  Clara  was  fair  before  sunrise  with  luminous  colours 


TTIK   KGOIST 

omen  to  the  husbandman.  Clara  had  noweatheiv 

for  the  rich  Eastern  crimson,  nor  a  quiel  space  within 
her  for  the  beauty.  She  looked  on  it  as  her  gate  of  promise, 
and  it  Bel  her  throbbing  with  a  revived  relief  in  radiant  things 
which  she  once  dreamed   of    to  surround  her  life,  bul    her 

lerated  pulses  narrowed  her  thoughts  upon  the  machinery 
of  her  project.     She  herself  was  metal,  pointing  all  to  her 

.litn  when  in  motion.  Nothing  came  amiss  to  it,  every- 
thing  was  fnel ;  fibs,  evasions,  the  serene  battalions  of  white 

parallel  on  the  march  with  dainty  rogue  falsehoods.  She 
had  delivered  herself  of  many  yesterday  in  her  engagements 
for  to-day.  Pressure  was  put  on  her  to  encra^e  herself,  and 
she  did  so  liberally*  throwing  the  burden  of  deceitfulness  on 

■  o 

the  extra  irdinary  pressure.     "1  want  the  early  part  of  the 

morning;  the  rest  of  the  'lay  I  shall  be  at   liberty."     She 

said  it   to  Willoughby,  .Miss    Dale,  Colonel  De  Craye,  and 

only  the  third  time  was  she  aware  of  the   delicious    double 

ining.    Hence  she  associated  it  with  the  Colonel. 

Your  loudest  outcry  against  the  wretch  who  breaks  your 

rules,  is  in  asking  how  a  tolerably  conscientious  person  could 

done  this  and  the  other  bt  sides  the  main  offence,  which 

\,.w  you  could  overlook  bul  for  the  minor  objections  per- 

the  incomprehensible  and  abominable 

lies,  for  example,  or  the  brazen  coolness  of  the  lying.     Yefc 

know  that   we  live    in   an    undisciplined    world,  where  in 

onr  i  tivity  wi  rvants  of  our  design,  and 

that  thi  -  of  our  passions,  and  those  of  our  position. 

Our  design  shapes  us  for  the  work  in  hand,  the  passions  man 

tin'  ship,  the  position  is  their  apology  :    and  now  should    eon- 

be  a  passenger  on  board,  a  merely  seeming  swiftness 

•  •I  will  keep  him  dumb  as  the  unwilling  guest  of 

a  pirate  captain  scudding  from  the  cruiser  half  in  cloven  brine 

through  rocks  and  shoals  to  save  his  black  flag.     Beware  the 

•   position. 

That  i-  easy  to  gay  :  sometimes  the  tangle  descends  on  us 

like  I   blight  on  a  rose-bush.      There  is  then  an  instant 

choice  tor  us  between  courage  to  cut  loose,  and  desperation 

if  we  do  not.     Bul    not   many   men   are  trained  to  courage; 

'ii  arc  trained   to  cowardice.     For  them  to  front 

an  evil  with   plain   speech   is  to  be  guilty  of  effrontery  and 

:        it  the  waxen  polish  of  purity,  and  therewith  their  com. 

manding  place   in   the   market.     They  are  trained  to  please 


THE  FLIGHT  IN  WILD  WEATHER.  200 

man's  taste,  for  which  purpose  they  soon  learn  to  live  out  of 
themselves,  and  look  on  themselves  as  he  looks,  almost  as 
little  disturbed  as  he  by  the  undiscovered.  Without  courage, 
conscience  is  a  sorry  guest ;  and  if  all  goes  well  with  the 
pirate  captain,  conscience  will  be  made  to  walk  the  plank  for 
being  of  no  service  to  either  party. 

Clara's  fibs  and  evasions  disturbed  her  not  in  the  least  that 
morning.  She  had  chosen  desperation,  and  she  thought  her- 
self very  brave  because  she  was  just  brave  enough  to  fly 
from  her  abhorrence.  She  was  light-hearted,  or  more  truly, 
drunken-hearted.  Her  quick  nature  realized  the  out  of 
prison  as  vividly  and  suddenly  as  it  had  sunk  suddenly 
and  leadenly  under  the  sense  of  imprisonment.  Vernon 
crossed  her  mind:  that  was  a  friend  !  Yes,  and  there  was  a 
guide  ;  but  he  would  disapprove,  and  even  he  thwarting  her 
way  to  sacred  liberty  must  be  thrust  aside. 

What  would  he  think  ?  They  might  never  meet,  for  her 
to  know.  Or  one  day  in  the  Alps  they  might  meet,  a  middle- 
aged  couple,  he  famous,  she  regretful  only  to  have  fallen 
below  his  lofty  standard.  "  For,  Mr.  Whitford,"  says  she, 
very  earnestly^  "  I  did  wish  at  that  time,  believe  me  or  not, 
to  merit  your  approbation."  The  brows  of  the  phantom 
Vernon  whom  she  conjured  up  were  stern,  as  she  had  seen 
them  yesterday  in  the  library. 

She  gave  herself  a  chiding  for  thinking  of  him  when  her 
mind  should  be  intent  on  that  which  he  was  opposed  to. 

It  was  a  livelier  relaxation  to  think  of  young  Crossjay's 
shamefaced  confession  presently  that  he  had  been  a  laggard 
in  bed  while  she  swept  the  dews.  She  laughed  at  him,  and 
immediately  Crossjay  popped  out  on  her  from  behind  a  tree, 
causing  her  to  clap  hand  to  heart  and  stand  fast.  A  con- 
spirator is  not  of  the  stuff  to  bear  surprises.  He  feared  he 
had  hurt  her  and  was  manly  in  his  efforts  to  soothe :  he  had 
been  up  "hours,"  he  said,  and  had  watched  her  coming  along 
the  avenue,  and  did  not  mean  to  startle  her:  it  was  the  kind 
of  fun  he  played  with  fellows,  and  if  he  had  hurt  her,  she 
might  do  anything  to  him  she  liked,  and  she  woald  see  if  he 
could  not  stand  to  be  punished.  He  was  urgent  with  her  to 
inflict  corporal  punishment  on  him. 

"  I  shall  leave  it  to  the  boatswain  to  do  that  when  you're 
in  the  navy,"  said  Clara. 


2  10  1  HI.   i  QOI8T 

" The  boatswain  daren't  strike  ac  officer!  so  now  you  see 
what  yon  know  of  the  navy."  said  Cross  jay. 

■•Mm  yon  could  not  bave  been  out  More  me,  you  naughty 
boy,  fori  found  all  the  locks  anil  1ml  is  when  I  went  to  the  door." 

•■  Km  \ou  didn't  go  to  the  back- door,  and  Sir  Willoughby'a 
private  door:  yon  came  out  by  the  hall-door ;  and  1  know 
what  von  want,  Miss  Middle-ton,  you  want  not  to  pay  what 
■ 

What  have  I  lost,  Crossjay  ?  " 

'•  Your  w  ager." 

"  What  was  that?" 

"  Vou  know." 

"S      tk." 

'•  A  k 

"Nothing  of  the  port.  But,  dear  hoy,  I  don't  love  you 
1  for  no!  kissing  you.  All  that  is  nonsense:  you  have  to 
think  only  of  learning,  and  to  be  truthful.  Never  tell  a 
-.- :  suffer  anything  rather  than  be  dishonest."  She  was 
particularly  impressive  upon  the  silliness  and  wickedness  of 
falsehood,  and  added  :  "  Do  you  hear  ?  " 

••  Yes:  l.ut  you  kissed  me  when  I  had  been  out  in  the 
rain  thai 

"  Because  I  promised." 

"  An  I  Miss  Middleton,  yon  betted  a  kiss  yesterday." 

•I  am  sure,  Crossjay-    no,  1  will  not  say    I    am   sure:  but 
sure   yon   wire  out    first  this  morning? 
Well,    will    yon    say    you    are    suit    that    when    you   left  the 
I        e  yon  did  not  see  me  in  the  avenue  ?     You  can't:  ah!" 

"Miss  Middleton,  I  do  really  believe  I  was  dressed  first." 

"Always  be  truthful,  my  dear  hoy.  arid  then  you  may 
feel  that  Clara  Middleton  will  always  love  you." 

"  Hut  Miss  Middleton,  when  you're  married  you  won't  be 
Clara  Middleton." 

••  I  certainly  shall.  ( '  . ." 

"No,  yon  won't,  because  t'm  so  fond  of  your  name !  " 

She  considered  and    said:  "  You  have  warned   me,  Cross- 
jay. and  I  shall  not  marry.     1  shall  wait,"  she  was  going  to 
.  "for  you,"  but  turned  the  hesitation  to  a    period.     "Is 
the  village  where  I  posted  my  letter  the  day  before  yester- 
day '""  far  for  you  r 

Crossjay  howled  in  contempt.  "Next  to  Clara  my  fa- 
vourite's Lucv,"  he  said. 


THE  FLIGHT  IN  WILD  WEATHER.  241 

"I  thought  Clara  came  next  to  Nelson,"  said   she;  "and 
a  long  way  off  too,  if  you're  not  going  to  be  a  landlubber." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  be   a  landlubber,  Miss  Middleton,  you 
may  be  absolutely  positive  on  your  solemn  word." 

"  You're  getting  to  talk  like  one  a  little  now  and  then, 
Crossjay." 

"  Then  I  won't  talk  at  all." 

He  stuck  to  his  resolution  for  one  whole  minute. 
Clara  hoped  that  on  this  morning  of  a  doubtful  though 
imperative  venture  she  had  done  some  good. 

They  walked  fast  to  cover  the  distance  to  the  village  post- 
office  and  back  before  the  breakfast  hour :  and  they  had 
plenty  of  time,  arriving  too  early  for  the  opening  of  the 
door,  so  that  Crossjay  began  to  dance  with  an  appetite,  and 
was  despatched  to  besiege  a  bakery.  Clara  felt  lonely  with- 
out him,  apprehensively  timid  in  the  shuttered  unmoving 
village  street.  She  was  glad  of  his  return.  "When  at  last 
her  letter  was  handed  to  her,  on  the  testimony  of  the  post- 
man that  she  was  the  lawful  applicant,  Crossjay  and  she 
put  on  a  sharp  trot  to  be  back  at  the  Hall  in  good  time. 
She  took  a  swallowing  glance  of  the  first  page  of  Lucy's 
writing : 

"Telegraph,  and  I  will  meet  you.  I  will  supply  you  with 
everything  you  can  want  for  the  two  nights,  if  you  cannot 
stop  longer." 

That  was  the  gist  of  the  letter.  A  second,  less  voracious, 
glance  at  it  along  the  road  brought  sweetness : — Lucy 
wrote : 

"  Do  I  love  you  as  I  did  ?  my  best  friend,  you  must  fall 
into  unhappiness  to  have  the  answer  to  that." 
Clara  broke  a  silence. 

"Yes,  dear  Crossjay,  and  if  you  like  you  shall  have  another 
walk  with  me  after  breakfast.  But  remember,  you  must 
not  say  where  you  have  gone  with  me.  I  shall  give  you 
twenty  shillings  to  go  and  buy  those  bird's  eggs  and  the 
butterflies  you  want  for  your  collection ;  and  mind,  promise 
me,  to-day  is  your  last  day  of  truancy.  Tell  Mr.  Whit  ford 
how  ungrateful  you  know  you  have  been,  that  he  may  have 
some  hope  of  you.  You  know  the  way  across  the  fields  to 
the  railway  station  ?  " 

"  You  save  a  mile  ;  you  drop   on   the  road  by  Combb.ne'a 

R 


242  THE    LUOIST. 

mill,  and  then   there's  another  live  minutes'  cut,  and  the 
iv^i  'h  rood. 

"Then,  CroSsjay,  immediately  after  breakfast  run  round 
behind  the  pheasantry,  and  there  I'll  find  you.  And  if  any 
one  comes  to  you  before  I  conic,  say  you  are  admiring  the 
plumage  of  the  Bimalaya— the  beautiful  Indian  bird;  and 
if  we're  found  together,  we  run  a  race,  and  of  course  you 
can  catch  me,  but  you  mustn't  until  we're  out  of  sight. 
Tell  Mr.  Vernon  at  night — tell  Mr.  Whitford  at  night  you 
had  the  money  from  me  as  part  of  my  allowance  to  you  for 
money.  I  used  to  like  to  have  pocket-money,  Cross- 
lay.  And  you  may  tell  him  I  gave  you  the  holiday,  and  I 
write  to  him  for  his  excuse,  if  he  is  not  too  harsh  to 
grant  it.      He  can  lie  very  harsh." 

■•  Vuii  look  right  into  his  eyes  next  time,  Miss  Middled. n. 
I  oaed  to  think  him  awful,  till  he  made  me  look  at  him. 
He  says  men  ought  to  look  straight  atone  another,  just  as  we 
du  when  he  gives  me  my  boxing-lesson,  and  then  we  won't 
have  quarrelling  half  so  much.     I  can't  recollect  everything 

he 

••  You  are  not  bound  to,  Crossjay," 

"  N".  but  you  like  to  hear." 

44  Really,  dear  boy,  I  can't  accuse  myself  of  having  told 

■  -  .\ ...  but,  Miss  Middleton,  you  do.  And  he's  fond  of 
your  Binging  and  playing  on  the  piano,  and  watches  you." 

44  We  Bhall  be  late  if  we  don't  mind,"  said  Clara,  starting 
to  a  pace  close  on  a  run. 

They  were  in  time  for  a  circuit  in  the  park  to  the  wild 
double  cherry-blossom,  no  longer  all  white.  Clara  gazed 
up  from  under  it,  where  she  had  imagined  a  fairer  visible 
heavi  •  •  -  than  any  other  sight  of  earth  had  ever  given 
her.  That  was  when  Vernon  lay  beneath.  But  she  had 
certainly  looked  above,  not  at  him.  The  tree  seemed  sor- 
:'ul  in  its  withering  flowers  of  the  colour  of  trodden 
w. 

Crossjay  resumed  the  conversation. 

'•  He  says  la  li<  -  don't  like  him  much." 

44  Who  says  that  ?  ' 

"Mr.  Whitford." 

'•  Wire  t bose  hi>  words  ? 

**1  forget  the  words  :    but  he  said  they  wouldn't  be  taught 


THE  FLIGHT  IN  WILD  WEATHER.  243 

by  him,  like  me  ever  since  you  came;  and  since  you  came 
I've  liked  him  ten  times  more." 

"  The  more  you  like  him  the  more  I  shall  like  you, 
Crossjay." 

The  boy  raised  a  shout  and  scampered  away  to  Sir  Wil- 
loughby,  at  the  appearance  of  whom  Clara  felt  herself  nipped 
and  curling  inward.  Crossjay  ran  up  to  him  with  every 
sign  of  pleasure.  Yet  he  had  not  mentioned  him  during 
the  walk ;  and  Clara  took  it  for  a  sign  that  the  boy  under- 
stood the  entire  satisfaction  Willoughby  had  in  mere  shows 
of  affection,  and  acted  up  to  it.  Hardly  blaming  Crossjay, 
she  was  a  critic  of  the  scene,  for  the  reason  that  youthful 
creatures  who  have  ceased  to  love  a  person,  hunger  for 
evidence  against  him  to  confirm  their  hard  animus,  which 
will  seem  to  them  sometimes,  when  he  is  not  immediately 
irritating  them,  brutish,  because  they  cannot  analyze  it  and 
reduce  it  to  the  multitude  of  just  antagonisms  whereof  it 
came.  It  has  passed  by  large  accumulation  into  a  sombre 
and  speechless  load  upon  the  senses,  and  fresh  evidence, 
the  smallest  item,  is  a  champion  to  speak  for  it.  Being 
about  to  do  wrong,  she  grasped  at  this  eagerly,  and  brooded 
on  the  little  of  vital  and  truthful  that  there  was  in  the  man, 
and  how  he  corrupted  the  boy.  Nevertheless  she  instinct- 
ively imitated  Crossjay  in  an  almost  sparkling  salute  to 
him. 

"  Good  morning,  "Willoughby ;  it  was  not  a  moiming  to 
lose  :  have  you  been  out  long  ?  " 

He  retained  her  hand.  "  My  dear  Clara  !  and  you,  have 
you  not  over-fatigued  yourself  ?     Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"  Round — everywhere  !     And  I  am  certainly  not  tired." 

"  Only  you  and  Crossjay  ?  You  should  have  loosened  the 
dogs." 

"  Their  barking  would  have  annoyed  the  house." 

"  Less  than  I  am  annoyed  to  think  of  you  without  pro- 
tection. 

He  kissed  her  fingers :  it  was  a  loving  speech. 

"  The  household  .  .  .  ."  said  Clara,  but  would  not  insist 
to  convict  him  of  what  he  could  not  have  perceived. 

"If  you  outstrip  me  another  morning,  Clara,  promise  ma 
to  take  the  dogs  ;  will  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

'•  To-day  I  am  altogether  yours.'* 

r  2 


2  1  J.  Till:  EGOIST. 

••A'  ?" 

••  Prom   tl  •    to  tlic  last  liour  of  it! — So  you  fall  in 

•with  II  r  pleasantly  ?  " 

'■  Be  i-  vrry  amusing 
"  \-  LT- 1' >«1  as  though  <>nc  had  hired  him 
"  Here  comes  Colonel  De  Crave." 
"  He  musl  think  we  have  hired  him  !  " 
She   noticed  the  bitterness  of    "Willoughby's  tone.      Ho 
e  out  a  good  morning  to  De  Craye,  and  remarked  that 
he  musl  go  to  the  stables. 

••  Darleton  ?  Darleton,  ^Tiss  Middle-ton?  "  said  the  colonel, 
ag  from  his  how  to  her:  "  A  daughter  of  General  Darle- 
ton r      If  so,  I  have  had  the  honour  to  dance    with   her. 
:.otyou? — practised  with  her,  I  mean;    or  gone 
pff  in  a  triumph  to  dance  it  out  as  young  ladies  do.     So  you 
know  what  a  delightful  partner  she  is." 

i-!"   cried   Clara,  enthusiastic   for   her   succouring 
friend,  whose  letter  was  the  treasure  in  her  bosom. 

••  •  Iddly,  the   name  did   not   strike   me   yesterday,   Miss 
Middleton.    In  the  middle  of  the  night  it  rang  a  little  silver 
bell   in   my  oar,  and  I  remembered  the  lady  I  was  half  in 
with,  if  only   for  her  dancing.     She  is  dark,  of  your 
height,   a-   lighl    on   her  feet;    a  sister  in  another   colour. 
\  that  1  know  her  to  be  your  friend  !   .   .   .   ." 
•■  Why,  vim  may  meet  her,  Colonel  De  Craye." 
"It'll  lie  to  uffer  her  a  castaway.      And  one  only  meets  a 
eh  arming  girl  to  hear  thai  she's  engaged!      Tis  not  a  line 
of  a  ballad,  Miss  Middleton,  but  out  of  tin'  heart." 

"    I.  Darlel Yon    were  leading  me  to  talk 

1  1  De  Craye." 

••Will   y<  -and    not   think   me   a  perpetual 

tumbler  1  heard   of   melancholy  clowns.      You 

would    find   the   t': not  so   laughable   behind   my    paint. 

Win  •!    I    was  thirteen  years  younger  I  was  loved,  and  mv 

(ha  ok  to  the  grave.     Since  then  I  have  not  been  quite 

at  1  probably   because  of   finding  no  one  so 

charitable  as  she.        I    -  easy   to   win  smiles  and  hands,  but 

'      win  a  \  whose  faith  you  would  trust  as 

■own  heart    before  the  enemy.      I   was  poor  then.      Sin; 

1:   'Tin'  day  after  my    twenty-first  birthday;'  and  that 

day  I  went  for  her.  arid  I  wondered  they  did  not  refuse  mo 


THE  FLIGHT  IN  WILD  WEATHER.  245 

at  the  door.  I  was  shown  upstairs,  and  I  saw  her,  and  saw 
death.  She  wished  to  marry  me,  to  leave  me  hei 
fortune  !  " 

"  Then  never  marry,"  said  Clara  in  an  underbreath. 

She  glanced  behind. 

Sir  Willoughby  was  close,  walking  on  turf. 

'  I  must  be  cunning  to  escape  him  after  breakfast,'  she 
thought. 

He  had  discarded  his  foolishness  of  the  previous  days, 
and  the  thought  in  him  could  have  replied  :  '  I  am  a  dolt  if 
I  let  you  out  of  my  sight.' 

Vernon  appeared,  formal  as  usual  of  late.  Clara  begged 
his  excuse  for  withdrawing  Crossjay  from  his  morning 
swim.     He  nodded. 

De  Craye  called  to  Willoughby  for  a  book  of  the  trains. 

"  There's  a  card  in  the  smoking-room  ;  eleven,  one,  and 
four  are  the  hours,  if  you  must  go,"  said  Willoughby. 

"  You  leave  the  Hall,  Colonel  De  Craye  ?" 

"  In  two  or  three  days,  Miss  Middleton." 

She  did  not  request  him  to  stay  :  his  announcement  pro- 
duced no  effect  on  her.  Consequently,  thought  he — well, 
what  ?  nothing  :  well,  then,  she  might  not  le  minded  to  stay 
herself.  Otherwise  she  would  have  regretted  the  loss  of  an 
amusing  companion :  that  is  the  modest  way  of  putting  it. 
There  is  a  modest  and  a  vain  for  the  same  sentiment ;  and 
both  may  be  simultaneously  in  the  same  breast ;  and  each 
one  as  honest  as  the  other ;  so  shy  is  man's  vanity  in  the 
presence  of  here  and  there  a  lady.  She  liked  him  :  she  did 
not  care  a  pin  for  him — how  could  she  ?  yet  she  liked  him  : 
O  to  be  able  to  do  her  some  kindling  bit  of  service  !  These 
were  his  consecutive  fancies,  resolving  naturally  to  the 
exclamation,  and  built  on  the  conviction  that  she  did  not 
love  Willoughby,  and  waited  for  a  spirited  lift  from  circum- 
stances. His  call  for  a  book  of  the  trains  had  been  a  sheer 
piece  of  impromptu,  in  the  mind  as  well  as  on  the  mouth. 
It  sprang,  unknown  to  him,  of  conjectures  he  had  indulged 
yesterday  and  the  day  before.  This  morning  she  would 
have  an  answer  to  her  letter  to  her  friend,  Miss  Lucy 
Darleton,  the  pretty  dark  girl,  whom  De  Craye  was  asto- 
nished not  to  have  noticed  more  when  he  danced  with  her. 
She,  pretty  as  she  was,  had  come  to  his  recollection  through 
the  name  and  rank  of  her  father,  a  famous  general  of  cavalry, 


2  16  T11K  EGOIST. 

and  taotician  in  that  arm.     The  colonel  despised  himself  for 
:       having  been  devoted  to  Clara  Middleton's  friend. 

'I'lu  morning's  letters  were  on  the  bronze  plate  in  the 
hall.  Clara  passed  on  her  way  to  her  room  without  inspect- 
ingthem.  De  Craye  opened  an  envelope  and  went  upstairs 
to  scribble  a  line.  Sir  Willonghby  observed  their  absence 
;,t  the  Bolemn  reading  to  the  domestic  servants  in  advance  of 
breakfast.  Three  chairs  were  unoccupied.  Vernon  had  his 
own  notions  of  a  mechanical  service — and  a  precious  profit 
be  derived  from  them  !  but  the  other  two  seats  returned  the 
Willonghby  casi  at  thru-  bucks  with  an  impudence 
reminded  him  of  bis  friend  Horace's  calling  for  a  book 
of  the  trains,  when  a  minute  afterward  he  admitted  he  was 
goil  ii  the   Hall   another  two  days,  or  three.      The 

man  possessed  by  jealousy  is  never  in  need  of  matter  for  it: 
he  magnifies  ;  grass  is  jungle,  hillocks  are  mountains.  Wil- 
longhby'a  legs  crossing  and  uncrossing  audibly,  and  his 
tight-folded  arms  and  clearing  of  the  throat,  were  faint 
indications  of  his  condition. 

i  in  fair  health  this  morning,  Willonghby  ?"  Dr. 
Middleton  said  to  him  after  he  had  closed  his  volumes. 

"The  thing  is  not  much  questioned  by  those  who  know 
i      intimately,"  he  replied, 

"Willonghby  unwell!"  and:  "He  is  health  incarnate'" 
•zclaimed  the  la  lies  Eleanor  and  Isabel. 

Lsetitia  grieved  for  him.  Snnrays  on  a  pest-stricken  city, 
pie-  thought,  were  like  the  smile  of  his  face.  She  believed 
that  he  d(  eply  loved  Clara  and  had  learnt  more  of  her 
alienation. 

]|.  into  the  hall  to  look  up  the  well  for  the  pair  of 

malefactors  ;  on  fire  with  what  he  could  not  reveal  to  a  soul. 
1 1.   '  was  in  the  honsekee]  er's  room,  talking  to  young 

1  iv   and    Mrs.   Montague   just   come   up  to  breakfast. 

He  had  heard  the  boy  chattering,  and  as  the  door  was  ajar, 
he  peeped  in.  ami  was  invited  to  enter.  Mrs.  Montague  was 
very  fond  of  hearing  him  talk;  he  paid  her  the  familiar 
reaped  which  a  lady  of  falhn  fortunes,  at  a  certain  period 
r  the  fall,  enjoys  as  a  1  !y  sad  souvenir,  and  the 

i  •    J]  •    e  lord  of  the  house  was  more  chilling. 

■   bewailed  the  boy's  trying  his  constitution  with  long 
b  (fore  he  hal  anything  in  him  to  walk  on. 


THE  FLIGHT  IN  WILD  WEATHER.  247 

"  And  where  did  you  go  this  morning,  my  lad  ?"  said  De 
Crave. 

"  Ah,  you  know  the  ground,  colonel,"  said  Crossjay.  "  I 
am  hungry!  I  shall  eat  three  eggs  and  some  bacon,  and 
buttered  cnkes,  and  jam,  then  begin  again,  on  my  second 
cup  of  coffee." 

"  It's  not  braggadocio,"  remarked  Mrs.  Montague.  "  He 
waits  empty  from  five  in  the  morning  till  nine,  and  then  he 
comes  famished  to  my  table,  and  eats  too  much." 

"  Oh  !  Mrs.  Montague,  that  is  what  the  country  people 
call  roemancing.  For,  Colonel  De  Craye,  I  had  a  bun  at 
seven  o'clock.     Miss  Middleton  forced  me  to  go  and  buy  it." 

*•  A  stale  bun,  my  boy  ?" 

"  Yesterday's :  there  wasn't  much  of  a  stopper  to  you  in 
it,  like  a  neAv  bun." 

"  And  where  did  you  leave  Miss  Middleton  when  you  went 
to  buy  the  bun  ?  You  should  never  leave  a  lady  ;  and  the 
street  of  a  country  town  is  lonely  at  that  early  hour.  Cross- 
jay,  you  surprise  me." 

"  She  forced  me  to  go,  colonel.  Indeed  she  did.  What  do 
I  care  for  a  bun  !  And  she  was  quite  safe.  We  could  hear 
the  people  stirring  in  the  post-office,  and  I  met  our  postman 
going  for  his  letter-bag.  I  didn't  want  to  go  :  bother  the 
bun  ! — but  you  can't  disobey  Miss  Middleton.  I  never  want 
to,  and  wouldn't." 

"  There  we're  of  the  same  mind,"  said  the  colonel,  and 
Crossjay  shouted,  for  the  lady  whom  they  exalted  was  at  the 
door. 

"  You  will  be  too  tired  for  a  ride  this  morning,"  De  Craye 
said  to  her,  descending  the  stairs. 

She  swung  a  bonnet  by  the  ribands :  "  I  don't  think  of 
ridin<?  to-day." 

"  Why  did  you  not  depute  your  mission  to  me  ?" 

"  I  like  to  bear  my  own  burdens,  as  far  as  I  can." 

"  Miss  Darleton  is  well  ?" 

"  I  presume  so." 

"  Will  you  try  her  recollection  of  me  ?" 

'*  It  will  probably  be  quite  as  lively  as  yours  was." 

"  Shall  you  see  her  soon?" 

"  I  hope  so." 

Sir  Willoughby  met  her  at   the  foot  of  the   stairs,  but 
refrained  from  giving  her  a  hand  that  shook. 


Till    EGOIST. 

"  We  shall  have  the  day  together,"  he  said. 

Clara  bowed. 

At  the  breakfast  table  she  Faced  a  clock. 

De  Craye  took  out  his  watch.  "Ton  a  re  five  and  a  hall 
minutes  too  slow  by  thai  clock,  Willoughby." 

■■  The  man  omitted  to  come  from  Rendon  to  set  it  last 
week,  bJorace.  He  will  find  the  hour  too  late  here  for  lain 
when  he  does  come." 

One  of  the  ladies  compared  the  time  of  her  watch  with 
De  Craye's,  and  Clara  looked  at  hers  and  gratefully  noted 
that  -lit-  was  four  minutes  in  arrear. 

She  left  the  breakfast-room  at  a  quarter  to  ten,  after  kiss- 
ire,'  her  father.  Willoughby  was  behind  her.  He  had  been 
lied  by  thinking  of  his  personal  advantages  over  De  Crave, 
and  lie  felt  assured  that  if  he  could  be  solitary  with  his 
eccentric  bride  and  fold  her  in  himself,  he  would,  cutting 
temper  adrift,  be  the  man  he  had  been  to  her  not  so  many 
days  back.  Considering  how  few  days  back,  his  temper  was 
.  but  he  controlled  it. 

They  were  slightly  dissenting  as  De  Craye  stepped  into 
the  hall. 

•■  A  present  worth  examining,"  "Willoughby  said  to  her: 

"  and  I  do  not  dwell  on  the  costliness.    Come  presently,  then. 

I  am  at  your  disposal  all  day.     I  will  drive  you  in  the  after- 

i"  call  on  Lady  Basshe  to  offer  your  thanks:  but  you 

st  see  it  first.     It  is  laid  out  in  the  laboratory." 

'  There  is  time  before  the  afternoon,"  said  Clara. 

"Wedding  presents?"  interposed  De  Crave. 

"  A  porcelain  service  from  Lady  Busshe,  Horace." 
'Not   in  fragments?      Let  me  have  a  look  at  it.     I'm 
haunted  by  an  idea  that  porcelain  always  goes   to  pieces. 
I'll  have  a  look  and  take  a  hint.     We're  in  the  laboratory, 
bliss  Middleton." 

He  put  his  arm  under  Willnughby's.  The  resistance  to 
him  was  momentary:  Willoughby  had  the  satisfaction  of  tha 
thought  that  De  Craye  being  with  him  was  not  with  Clara; 
and  seeing  her  giving  orders  to  her  maid  Barclay,  he  deferred 
h's  claim  on  her  company  for  some  short  period. 

D  ■  detained  him  in  the  laboratory,  first  over  the 

China  cups  and  saucers,  and  then  with  the  latest  of  London 
— tales  of  youngest  Cupid  upon  subterranean  adventures, 
having  high  titles  to  light  him.     Willoughby  liked  the  tale 


THE  FLIGHT  IN  WILD  WEATHER  249 

thus  illuminated,  for  without  the  title  there  was  no  special 
savour  in  such  affairs,  and  it  pulled  down  his  betters  in  rank. 
He  was  of  a  morality  to  reprobate  the  erring  dame  while  he 
enjoyed  the  incidents.  He  could  not  help  interrupting  De 
Craye  to  point  at  Vernon  through  the  window,  striding  this 
way  and  that,  evidently  on  the  hunt  for  young  Crossjay. 
"  No  one  here  knows  how  to  manage  the  boy  except  myself 
But  go  on,  Horace,"  he  said,  checking  his  contemptuous 
laugh ;  and  Vernon  did  look  ridiculous,  out  there  half- 
drenched  already  in  a  white  rain,  again  shuffled  off  by  the 
little  rascal.  It  seemed  that  he  was  determined  to  have 
his  runaway :  he  struck  up  the  avenue  at  full  pedestrian 
racing  pace. 

"  A  man  looks  a  fool  cutting  after  a  cricket-ball,  bat 
putting  on  steam  in  a  storm  of  rain  to  catch  a  young  villain 
out  of  sight,  beats  anything  I've  witnessed,"  Willoughby 
resumed,  in  his  amusement. 

"  Aiha !"  said  De  Craye,  waving  a  hand  to  accompany 
the  melodious  accent,  "  there  are  things  to  beat  that  fur 
fun." 

He  had  smoked  in  the  laboratory,  so  "Willoughby  directed 
a  servant  to  transfer  the  porcelain  service  to  one  of  the 
sitting-rooms  for  Clara's  inspection  of  it. 

"  You're  a  bold  man,"  De  Craye  remarked.  "  The  luck 
may  be  with  you,  though.  I  wouldn't  handle  the  fragile 
treasure  for  a  trifle." 

"  I  believe  in  my  luck,"  said  Willoughby. 

Clara  was  now  sought  for.  The  lord  of  the  house  desired 
her  presence  impatiently,  and  had  to  wait.  She  was  in  none 
of  the  lower  rooms.  Barclay,  her  maid,  upon  interrogation, 
declared  she  was  in  none  of  the  upper.  Willoughby  turned 
sharp  on  De  Craye:  he  was  there. 

The  ladies  Eleanor  and  Isabel,  and  Miss  Dale,  were  con- 
sulted. They  had  nothing  to  say  about  Clara's  movements, 
more  than  that  they  could  not  understand  her  exceeding 
restlessness.  The  idea  of  her  being  out  of  doors  grew  serious; 
heaven  was  black,  hard  thunder  rolled,  and  lightning  flushed 
the  battering  rain.  Men  bearing  umbrellas,  shawls  and 
cloaks  were  despalched  on  a  circuit  of  the  park.  De  Craye 
said  :  '  I'll  be  one." 

"  No,"  cried  Willoughby,  starting  to  intercept  him,  "  1 
can't  allow  it." 


250  THE  EGOIST. 

"I've  the  scent  of  a  hound,  Willoughby;  I'll  soon  be  on 
tin'  track." 

••  .My  dear  Horace,  I  won't  let  you  fro." 

"  Adieu,  den'  boy!  and  if  the  lady's  discoverable,  I'm  the 
our  to  6nd  her." 

Mr   Btepped   to  the   umbrella-stand.     There   was  then   a 

estion    whether  Clara  had  taken   her   umbrella. 

Barclay  said   she  had.     The  fact  indicated  a  wider  stroll 

than  round  inside  the  park:  Crossjay  was  likewise  absent. 

De  Craye  nodded  to  himself. 

Willoughby  struck  a  rattling  blow  on  the  barometer. 

"Where's  Pollington  ?"  he  called,  and  sent  word  for  his 
man  Pollington  to  bring  big  tishing-boots  and  waterproof 
wrappers. 

An  urgent  debate  within  him  was  in  progress. 

Should  he  go  forth  alone  on  his  chance  of  discovering 
Clara  and  forgiving  her  under  his  umbrella  and  cloak?  or 
6ln>uld  he  prevent  De  Craye  from  going  forth  alone  on  the 
chance  he  vaunted  so  impudently  ? 

"  Von  will  offend  me,  Horace,  if  you  insist,"  he  said. 

'  Regard  me  as  an  instrument  of  destiny,  Willoughby," 
replied  De  Craye. 

"  Then  we  go  in  company." 

"Bui  that's  an  addition  of  one  that  cancels  the  other  by 
conjunction,  and's  worse  than  simple  division:  for  I  can't 
trusl  my  wits  unless  I  rely  on  them  alone,  you  see." 

"  Upon  my  word,  you  talk  at  times  most  unintelligible 
Btuff,  to  be  frank  with  you,  Horace,     Give  it  in  English." 

"lis  not  suited  perhaps  to  the  genius  of  the  language, 
for  I  thought  I  talked  English." 

"  Oh !  there's  English  gibberish  as  well  as  Irish,  we 
know  !" 

\ti  1  a  deal  foolisher  when  they  do  go  at  it;  for  it  won't 
bear  squeezing,  we  think,  like  Irish." 

•  Where  !"  exclaimed  the  ladies,  "where  can  she  be!  The 
storm  is  terrible." 

I.    titia  suggested  the boathouse. 

'  For  Crossjay  hadn't  a  swim  this  morning  !"  said  De 
Clave. 

No  one  reflected  on  the  absuidity  that  Clara  should  think 
of  faking  Crossjay  for  a  swim  in  the  lake,  and  immediately 
after    his    breakfast:    it   was  accepted  as    a   suggestion   at 


THE  FLIGHT  IN  WILD  WEATHER.  251 

least  that  she  and  Crossjay  had  gone  to  the  lake  for  a 
row. 

In  the  hopefulness  of  the  idea,  Willoughby  suffered  De 
Craye  to  go  on  his  chance  unaccompanied.  He  was  near 
chuckling.  He  projected  a  plan  for  dismissing  Crossjay  and 
remaining  in  the  boathouse  with  Clara,  luxuriating  in  the 
prestige  which  would  attach  to  him  for  seeking  and  finding 
her.  Deadly  sentiments  intervened.  Still  he  might  expect 
to  be  alone  with  her  where  she  could  not  slip  from  him. 

The  throwing  open  of  the  hall-doors  for  the  gentlemen 
presented  a  framed  picture  of  a  deluge.  All  the  young- 
leaved  trees  were  steely  black,  without  a  gradation  of  green, 
drooping  and  pouring,  and  the  song  of  rain  had  become  an 
inveterate  hiss. 

The  ladies  beholding  it  exclaimed  against  Clara,  even 
apostrophized  her,  so  dark  are  trivial  errors  when  circum- 
stances frown.  She  must  be  mad  to  tempt  such  weather : 
she  was  very  giddy;  she  was  never  at  rest.  Clara  !  Clara! 
how  could  you  be  so  wild  !  Ought  we  not  to  tell  Dr.  Middle- 
ton  ? 

Lsetitia  induced  them  to  spare  him. 

"  Which  way  do  you  take  ?"  said  Willoughby,  rather 
fearful  that  his  companion  was  not  to  be  got  rid  of  now. 

"  Any  way,"  said  De  Craye.  "  I  chuck  up  my  head  like 
a  halfpenny  and  go  by  the  toss." 

This  enraging  nonsense  drove  off  Willoughby.  De  Craye 
saw  him  cast  a  furtive  eye  at  his  heels  to  make  sure  he  was 
not  followed,  and  thought :  "  Jove  !  he  may  be  fond  of  her. 
But  he's  not  on  the  track.  She's  a  determined  girl,  if  I'm 
correct.  She's  a  girl  of  a  hundred  thousand.  Girls  like 
that  make  the  right  sort  of  wives  for  the  right  men.  They're 
the  girls  to  make  men  think  of  marrying.  To-morrow ! 
only  give  me  the  chance.  They  stick  to  you  fast  when  they 
do  stick." 

'Ihen  a  thought  of  her  flower-like  drapery  and  face  caused 
him  fervently  to  hope  she  had  escaped  the  storm. 

Calling  at  the  West  park-lodge  he  heard  that  Miss  Mid- 
dleton  had  been  seen  passing  through  the  gate  with  Master 
Crossjay ;  but  she  had  not  been  seen  coming  back.  Mr. 
Vernon  Whitford  had  passed  through  half  an  hour  later. 

"  After  his  young  man  !"  said  the  colonel. 

The   lodge-keeper's   wife   and  daughter  knew  of  Mastef 


i  in:  KQOIfi  i. 

nks ;  Mr.  Whitford,  they  said,  had  made 
inquiries  aboul  him,  and  must  have  caughl  him  and  sent 
him  home  to  change  his  dripping  things;  for  Master  Crossjay 
had  come  back,  and  had  declined  Btelter  in  the  Lodge;  ho 
aed  to  be  crying;  he  went  away  soaking  over  the  wet 
grass,  hanging  his  head.  The  opinion  at  the  lodge  was, 
thai  Master  Crossjay  was  unhappy. 

••  Be   very  properly  received  a   wigging  frcm  Mr.  Whit- 
ford, I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Colonel  De  Craye. 

Mother  and  daughter  supposed   it  to  be  the  ease,  and 
dered  Crossjay  very  wilful  for  not  going  straight  home 
ie  Hall  to  change  his  wet  clothes ;  he  was  drenched. 
Dc  drew  out  his  watch.     The  time  was  ten  minutes 

i.  [f  the  surmise  he  had  distantly  spied  was 
ect,  .Miss  Middleton  would  have  been  caught  in  the 
storm  midway  to  her  destination.  By  his  guess  at  her 
character  (knowledge  of  it,  he  would  have  said),  he  judged 
that  no  storm  would  daunt  her  on  a  predetermined  expe- 
dition. He  deduced  in  consequence  that  she  was  at  the 
moment  Hying  to  her  friend  the  charming  brunette 
Lucy  I  larleton. 

Still,  as  there  was  a  possibility  of  the  rain  having  been 

too  much  for  her,  and  a?  he   had  no  other  speculation  con- 

oing  the  route  she  had  taken,  he  decided  upon  keeping 

along  the  road   to   Etendon,  with  a  keen  eye  at  cottage  and 

farmhouse  windows. 


CI!  \  I 'Till!    XXVI. 
VERNON  IN  PURSUIT. 


TV  -keeper  had  a  son,  who  was  a  chum  of  Master 

1  low   with    him   upon  many  adven- 

this  h"  -ion  was  to  become  a  gamekeeper, 

-.mil  accompanied   by  one  of  the  head-gamekeeper's  yonng- 

-.  he  and  Crossjay  were  in  the  habit  of  ranging  over  the 

country,  pn  pa  profession  delightful  to  the  ta 

i  II    three.       <  '-    pros]  rion    wit  h    ( he 

title  of  captain  on   him  by 


VERNON  IN  PURSUIT.  253 

common  consent ;  he  led  them,  and  when  missing-  for  lessons 
he  was  generally  in  the  society  of  Jacob  Croom  or  Jonathan 
Fernaway.  Vernon  made  sure  of  Crossjay  when  he  per- 
ceived Jacob  Croom  sitting  on  a  stool  in  the  little  lodge- 
parlour.  Jacob's  appearance  of  a  diligent  perusal  of  a  book 
he  had  presented  to  the  lad,  he  took  for  a  decent  piece  of 
trickery.  It  was  with  amazement  that  he  heard  from  the 
mother  and  daughter,  as  well  as  Jacob,  of  Miss  Middleton's 
going  through  the  gate  before  ten  o'clock  with  Crossjay 
beside  her,  the  latter  too  hurrird  to  spare  a  nod  to  Jacob. 
That  she,  of  all  on  earth,  should  be  encouraging  Crossjay  to 
truancy  was  incredible.  Vernon  had  to  fall  back  upon 
Greek  and  Latin  aphoristic  shots  at  the  sex  to  believe  it. 

Rain  was  universal ;  a  thick  robe  of  it  swept  from  hill  to 
hill  ;  thunder  rumbled  remote,  and  between  the  ruffled  roars 
the  downpour  pressed  on  the  land  with  a  great  noise  of  eager 
gobbling,  much  like  that  of  the  swine's  trough  fresh  filled,  as 
though  a  vast  assembly  of  the  hungered  had  seated  them, 
selves  clamorously  and  fallen  to  on  meats  and  drinks  in  a 
silence,  save  of  the  chaps.  A  rapid  walker  poetically  and 
humourously  minded  gathers  multitudes  of  images  on  his 
way.  And  rain,  the  heaviest  you  can  meet,  is  a  lively  com- 
panion when  the  resolute  pacer  scorns  discomfort  of  wet 
clothes  and  squealing  boots.  South-western  rain-clouds,  too, 
are  never  long  sullen  :  they  enfold  and  will  have  the  earth  in 
a  good  strong  glut  of  the  kissing  overflow ;  then,  as  a  hawk 
with  feathers  on  his  beak  of  the  bird  in  his  claw  lifts  head, 
they  rise  and  take  veiled  feature  in  long  climbing  watery 
lines  :  at  any  moment  they  may  break  the  veil  and  show  soft 
upper  cloud,  show  sun  on  it,  show  sky,  green  near  the  verge 
they  spring  from,  of  the  green  of  grass  in  early  dew  ;  or, 
along  a  travelling  sweep  that  rolls  asunder  overhead,  heaven's 
laughter  of  purest  blue  among  titanic  white  shoulders:  it 
may  icean  fair  smilingfor  awhile,  or  be  the  lightest  interlude; 
but  the  watery  lines,  and  the  drifting,  the  chasing,  the  up- 
soaring,  all  in  a  shadowy  fingering  of  form,  and  the  animation 
of  the  leaves  of  the  trees  pointing  them  on,  the  bending  of 
the  tree-tops,  the  snapping  of  branches,  and  the  hurrahings 
of  the  stubborn  hedge  at  wrestle  with  the  flaws,  yielding  but 
a  leaf  at  most,  and  that  on  a  fling,  make  a  glory  of  contest 
and  wildness  without  aid  of  colour  to  inflame  the  man  who  is 
at  home  in  them  from   old   association   on  road,  heath  and 


254  TTIE  EGOIST. 

mountain.  Let  hiro  be  drenched,  his  heart  will  sing.  And 
thou,  trim  cockney,  that  jeerest,  consider  thyself,  to  whom  it 
may  occur  to  be  out  in  such  a  s  ad  with  what  steps  of 

a  nervous  dancing  master  it  would  be  thine  to  play  the  hunted 
rat  of  the  elements,  for  the  preservation  of  the  one  imagined 
dry  spot  about  thee,  somewhere  on  thy  luckless  person  !  The 
taking  of  rain  and  sun  alike  befits  men  of  our  climate,  and  he 
who  would  have  the  secret  of  a  strengthening  intoxication 
must  court  the  clouds  of  the  South-west  with  a  lover's 
blood. 

Vernon's  happy  recklessness  was  dashed  by  fears  for  Miss 
Middleton.  Apart  from  those  fears,  he  had  the  pleasure  of  a 
gull  wheeling  among  foam-streaks  of  the  ware.  He  supposed 
the  Swiss  and  Tyrol  Alps  to  have  hidden  their  heads  from 
him  for  many  a  day  to  come,  and  the  springing  and  chiming 
South-west  was  the  next  best  thing.  A  milder  rain  descended; 
the  country  expanded  darkly  defined  underneath  the  moving 
curtain  ;  the  clouds  were  as  he  liked  to  see  them,  scaling;  but 
their  skirts  dragged.  Torrents  were  in  store,  for  they  coursed 
streamingly  still  and  had  not  the  higher  lift,  or  eagle  ascent, 
which  he  knew  for  one  of  the  signs  of  fairness,  nor  had  the 
hills  any  belt  of  mist-like  vapour. 

<  )n  a  step  of  the  stile  leading  to  the  short-cut  to  Rcndon 
Dg  Crossjay  was   espied.     A  man-tramp  sat  on  the  top 

"There  you   are;   what   are  you   doing  there?     "Where's 
M  iddlet on  r"  said  Vernon.     "  Xow,  take  care  before  you 
your  month." 
Cross  jay  shut  the  mouth  he  had  opened. 
"  The  lady  has  gone  away  over  to  a  station,  sir,"  said  the 
tramp. 

•  Von  fool!"  roared  Crossjay,  ready  to  fly  at  him. 
"  But   ain't  it,   now,   voung  gentleman  ?     Can  you  sav  it 
ain'i 

"•  I  ou  a  shilling,  you  ass  !" 

<_rive  me  thai    sum,   young  gentleman,  to  stop  here 
and  take  care  of  you,  and  here  T  stopped.'' 

'Mr.    Whitford!'    Crossjay  appealed   to  his   master,  and 
iff  in  disgust :  "  Take  care  of  me !     As  if  anybody  who 
knows  me  would  think  I  wanted  taking  care  of  !     Why,  what 
a  beast  you  must  be.  you  fellow  !" 

-  you  like,  young  gentleman.     I  chaunhdyou  all  T 


VERNON  IN  PURSUIT.  255 

know,  to  keep  up  your  downcast  spirits.  You  did  want 
comforting.  Tou  wanted  it  rarely.  You  cried  like  an 
infant." 

"  I  let  you  '  chaunt '  as  you  call  it,  to  keep  you  from 
swearing." 

"And  why  did  I  swear,  young  gentleman?  because  I've 
got  an  itchy  coat  in  the  wet,  and  no  shirt  for  a  lining.  And 
no  breakfast  to  give  me  a  stomach  for  this  kind  of  weather. 
That's  what  I've  come  to  in  this  world  !  I'm  a  walking 
moral.  No  wonder  I  swears,  when  I  don't  strike  up  a 
chaunt." 

"  But  why  are  you  sitting  here,  wet  through,  Crossjay  ? 
Be  off  home  at  once,  and  change,  and  get  ready  for  me." 

"  Mr.  Whitford,  I  promised,  and  I  tossed  this  fellow  a 
shilling  not  to  go  bothering  Miss  Middleton." 

"  The  lady  wouldn't  have  none  o'  the  young  gentleman, 
sir,  and  I  offered  to  go  pioneer  for  her  to  the  station,  behind 
her,  at  a  respectful  distance." 

"As  if! — you  treacherous  cur!"  Crossjay  ground  his  teeth 
at  the  betrayer.  "Well,  Mr.  Whitford,  and  I  didn't  trust 
him,  and  I  stuck  to  him,  or  he'd  have  been  after  her  whining 
about  his  coat  and  stomach,  and  talking  of  his  being  a  moral. 
He  repeats  that  to  everybody." 

"  She  has  gone  to  the  station  ?"  said  Yernon. 

Not  a  word  on  that  subject  was  to  be  won  from  Crossjay. 

"  How  long  since  ?"  Yernon  partly  addressed  Mr.  Tramp. 

The  latter  became  seized  with  shivers  as  he  supplied  the 
information  that  it  might  be  a  charter  of  an  hour  or  twenty 
minutes.  "But  what's  time  to  me,  sir!  If  I  had  reg'lar 
meals,  I  should  carry  a  clock  in  my  inside.  I  got  the  rheu- 
matics instead." 

"  Way  there  !"  Yernon  cried,  and  took  the  stile  at  a  vault. 

"  That's  what  gentlemen  can  do,  who  sleeps  in  then  beds 
warm,"  moaned  the  tramp.     "  They've  no  joints." 

Yernon  handed  him  a  half-crown  piece,  for  he  had  been  of 
use  for  once. 

"  Mr.  Whitford,  let  me  come.  If  you  tell  me  to  come  I 
may.  Do  let  me  come,"  Crossjay  begged  with  great  entreaty. 
"I  shan't  see  her  for  .  .  .  ." 

''  Be  off,  quick  !"     Yernon  cut  him  short  and  pushed  on. 

The  tramp  and  Crossjay  were  audible  .to  him  ;  Crossjay 
spurning  the  consolations  of  the  professional  sad  man. 


I  ii  I.   EGO 


V.  rnon  sprang  across  the  fields,  timing  himself  by  hia 
watch  to  reach  Ren  don  station  ten  minutes  before  eleven, 
though  without  clearly  questioning  the  nature  of  the  resolu- 
tion which  precipitated  him.  Dropping  to  the  road,  he  had 
foothold  than  on  the  slippery  field -path,  and  he  ran. 
His  principal  hope  was  thai  Clara  would  have  missed  her 
way.  Another  pelting  of  rain  agitated  him  on  her  behalf. 
Might  she  no!  as  well  be  suffered  to  go? — and  sit  three 
hours  and  more  in  a  railway-carriage  with  wet  feet! 

II.-  clasped  the  visionary  little  feet  to  warm  them  on  his 
breast.  But  Willoughby's  obstinate  fatuity  deserved  the 
blow  !  —  lint  neither  she.  nor  her  father  deserved  the  scandal. 
But  she  was  desperate.  Could  reasoning  touch  her?  [f 
not,  uhaf  would  ?  II. •  knew  of  nothing.  Yesterday  he  had 
o  Willoughby,  to  plead  with  him  to  favour 
her  departure  and  give  her  leisure  to  sound  her  mind,  and 
he  had  left  his  cousin,  convinced  that  Clara's   Lest  meas 

flight  :  a   man  so  cunning  in  a    pretended    obtuseness 
el  by  senseless  pride,  and  in  petty  tricks  that  sprang 
of  a  grovelling  tyranny,  could  only  be  taught  by  facts. 

Her  ree.  rit    i  nt  of  him,  however,  was  very  strange; 

thai  he  migb.1   have  known   himself  better  if  he 

lected  on  the  bound  with  which  it  shot  him  to  a  hard 

picion.      De  Crave  had  prepared  the  world  to  hear  that 

tras  leaving  the  Hall.     Were  they  in  concert  ?     The  idea 

struck  at  his  heart  colder  than  if   her  damp    little  feet  had 

I 

m's  full  exoneration  of  her  for  making  a  confidant 
of  himself,  did  not  extend  its  leniency  to  the  youns?  lady's 
chai  |,en  thee   was  question  of  her  doincr  the  same 

Wlfch  ;i  second  gentleman.  He  could  suspect  much:  he 
could  e  to  find  De  Craye  at  the  station.  - 

Thai    idea  drew  him  up  in  his  run,  to  meditate  on  the 

!'"■'    h ,llM  Play;  and  by  drove  little  Dr.  Corney  on  the 

way  to  Rendon,  and  hailed  him,  and  gave  his  cheerless 
figure  the  oear<  t  approach  to  an  Irish  hug  in  the  form  of  a 
dry        •         I.  ran  umbrella  and  waterproof  covering. 

'Though  it  is  fche  worsl  I  can  do  for  you,  if  you  decline, 

'        ipplemenl  ii  with  adoseofhol  brandy  and  water  at  the 

phin,    said  he:  "and  I'll  see  you  take*  it,  if  you  please. 

I m   bound    to   ease    n    Rendon    patienl   out   of  the    world, 

Ve  heme  s  one  of  th-  ir  superstitions,  which  they  cling  to  tho 


VERNON  IN  PURSUIT.  2,37 

harder  tlie  more  useless  it  gets.  Pill  and  priest  launch  him 
happy  between  them. — '  And  what's  on  your  conscience, 
Pat  ? — It's  whether  your  blessing,  your  Riverence,  would 
disagree  with  another  drop. — Then,  put  the  horse  before  the 
cart,  my  son,  and  you  shall  bave  the  two  in  harmony,  and 
God  speed  ye  !' — Rendon  station,  did  you  say,  Vernon  ? 
You  shall  have  my  prescription  at  the  Railway  Arms,  if 
you're  hurried.  You  have  the  look.  What  is  it?  Can  I  help?" 

"  Xo.     And  don't  ask." 

"  You're  like  the  Irish  Grenadier  who  had  a  bullet  in  a 
humiliating  situation.  Here's  Rendon,  and  through  it  we  go 
with  a  spanking  clatter.  Here's  Dr.  Corney's  dog-cart  post- 
haste again.  For  there's  no  dying  without  him  now,  and 
Repentance  is  on  the  death-bed  for  not  calling  him  in 
before !  Half  a  charge  of  humbug  hurts  no  son  of  a  gun, 
friend  Vernon,  if  he'd  have  his  firing  take  effect.  Be  tender 
to't  in  man  or  woman,  particularly  woman.  So,  by  goes  the 
meteoric  doctor,  and  I'll  bring  noses  to  window-panes,  you'll 
see,  which  reminds  me  of  the  sweetest  young  lady  I  ever 
saw,  and  the  luckiest  man.  "When  is  she  off  for  her  bridal 
trousseau  ?  And  when  are  they  spliced  ?  I'll  not  call  her 
perfection,  for  that's  a  post,  afraid  to  move.  But  she's  a 
dancing  sprig  of  the  tree  next  it.  Poetry's  wanted  to  speak 
of  her.  I'm  Irish  and  inflammable,  I  suppose,  but  I  never 
looked  on  a  girl  to  make  a  man  comprehend  the  entire  holy 
meaning  of  the  word  rapturous,  like  that  one.  And  away 
she  goes !  We'll  not  say  another  word.  But  you're  a 
Grecian,  friend  Vernon.  Now,  couldn't  you  think  her  just  a 
whiff  of  an  idea  of  a  daughter  of  a  peccadillo-Goddess  ?" 

"  Deuce  take  you,  Corney,  drop  me  here ;  I  shall  be  late 
for  the  train,"  said  Vernon,  laying  hand  on  the  doctor's  arm 
to  check  him  on  the  way  to  the  station  in  view. 

Dr.  Corney  had  a  Celtic  intelligence  for  a  meaning  behind 
an  illogical  tongue.  He  drew  up,  observing :  "  Two  minutes 
run  won't  hurt  you." 

He  slightly  fancied  he  might  have  given  offence,  though 
he  was  well  acquainted  with  Vernon  and  had  a  cordial  grasp 
at  the  parting. 

The  truth  must  be  told,  that  Vernon  could  not  at  the 
moment  bear  any  more  talk  from  an  Irishman.  Dr.  Corney 
had  succeeded  in  persuading  him  not  to  wonder  at  Clara 
Middleton's  liking  for  Colonel  De  Crave. 


L'JvS  Tin:  i  QOIST. 

CHAPTEB  XXVH 

AT   TH  n    KAII.WAV    STATION. 

Claha  stood  in  the  waiting-room  contemplating  the  white 
rails  of  the  rain-swept  line.  Her  lips  parted  at  the  sight  ol 
■  on. 

"  Vmii  have  your  ticket  P"  said  he. 

She  nodded,  and  breathed  more  freely;  the  matter  of  fact 
■i  v, as  reassuring. 

••  V..M  are  wet,"  lit-  resumed  ;  and  it  could  not  be  denied. 

••  .\  little.     I  do  no!  feel  it." 

"  I  musl  beg  you  to  come  to  the  inn  hard  by:  half  a  dozen 
We  shall  see  your  I  rain  signalled.     Come." 

She  thought  bim  startlingly  authoritative,  but  he  had 
to  back  him;  ami  depressed  ;is  she  was  by  the 
dan  she  was  disposed  to  yield  to  reason  if  he  con- 

tinued to  respect  her  independence.  So  she  submitted  out- 
wardly, resisted  inwardly,  on  the  watch  to  stop  him  from 
taking  any  decisive  lead. 

"  Shall  we  be  sure  to  3ee  the  signal.  Mr.  Whitford  ?" 

"  I'll  pi <".  i  le  for  that ." 

lie  spoke  to  the  station-clerk,  and  cmducted  her  across 
the  road. 

••  5  quite  alone,  M  iss  Middleton  ?" 

41 1  am:   I  have  not  brought  my  maid." 

•■  V  must  take  off  boots  and  stockings  at  once,  and  have 
them  dried.      I'll  put  you  in  the  hands  of  the  landlady." 

••  I  lut   my  train  !" 

"  You  have  full  fifteen  minutes,  besides  fair  chances  of 
dels 

II. •  Beemed  reasonable,  the  reverse  of  hostile,  in  spite  of 

his  commanding  air,  and   thai    was  not    unpleasant  in  one 

friendly  to  ber  adventure.     She  controlled   ber  alert  mis- 

•  I   passed   from   him  to  the  landlady,  for  her 

•  were  wet  and  cold,  the  skirts  of  her  dress  were  soiled; 
rally  inspecting  herself,  Bhe  was  an  object  to  be  shud- 
t,  and  Bhe  was  grateful  to  Vernon  for  his  inattention 
to  her  appearai 

Vernon  ordered   Dr.  Corney'fl  dose,  and  was  ushered  up. 


AT  THE  RAILWAY  STATION. 


259 


stairs  to  a  room  of  portraits,  where  the  publican's  ancestors 
and  family  sat  against  the  walls,  flat  on  their  canvas  as  weeds 
of  the  botanist's  portfolio,  although  corpulency  was  pretty 
generally  insisted  on,  and  there  were  formidable  battalions  of 
bust  among  the  females.  All  of  them  had  the  aspect  of  the 
national  energy  which  has  vanquished  obstacles  to  subside  on 
its  ideal.  They  all  gazed  straight  at  the  guest.  '  Drink,  and 
come  to  this  !'  they  might  have  been  labelled  to  say  to  him. 
He  was  in  the  private  Walhalla  of  a  large  class  of  his  country- 
men. The  existing  host  had  taken  forethought  to  be  of  the 
party  in  his  prime,  and  in  the  central  place,  looking  fresh- 
flattened  there,  and  sanguine  from  the  performance.  By- 
and-by  a  son  would  shove  him  aside ;  meanwhile  he  shelved 
his  parent,  according  to  the  manners  of  enerTy. 

One  should  not  be  a  critic  of  our  works  of  Art  in  uncom- 
fortable garments.  Vernon  turned  from  the  portraits  to  a 
stuffed  pike  in  a  glass-case,  and  plunged  into  sympathy  with 
the  fish  for  a  refuge. 

Clara  soon  rejoined  him,  saying:  "  But  you,  you  must  be 
very  wet.  You  were  without  an  umbrella.  You  must  be 
wet  through,  Mr.  Whitford." 

"We're  all  wet  through  to-day,"  said  Yernon.  "Cross- 
jay's  wet  through,  and  a  tramp  he  met." 

"The  horrid  man!  But  Crossjay  should  have  turned  back 
when  I  told  him.  Cannot  the  landlord  assist  you?  You  are 
not  tied  to  time.  I  begged  Crossjay  to  turn  back  when  it 
began  to  rain :  when  it  became  heavy  I  compelled  him.  So 
you  met  my  poor  Crossjay  ?" 

"  You  have  not  to  blame  him  for  betraying  you.  The 
tramp  did  that.  I  was  thrown  on  your  track  quite  by  acci- 
dent. jSTow  pardon  me  for  using  authority :  and  don't  be 
alarmed,  Miss  Middleton  ;  you  are  perfectly  free  for  me ; 
but  you  must  not  run  a  risk  to  your  health.  I  met  Dr. 
Corney  coming  along,  and  he  prescribed  hot  brandy  and  water 
for  a  wet  skin;  especially  for  sitting  in  it.  There's  the  stuff 
on  the  table;  I  see  you  have  been  aware  of  a  singular  odour; 
you  must  consent  to  sip  some,  as  medicine  ;  merely  to  give 
you  warmth." 

"  Impossible,  Mr.  Whit  ford  :  T  could  not  taste  it.  But 
pray,  obey  Dr.  Corney,  if  he  ordered  it  for  you." 

"  I  can't  unless  you  do." 

"  I  will,  then  :  I  will  try." 

s2 


Tin:  EGOIST. 

She  held  the  glass,  attempted,  and  was  baffled  bj  llio  reek 
of  it. 

•  Try:  yon  can  do  anything  "  Baid  Vernon. 

"  Now  thai  you  find  me  here,  Mr.  Whitford!  Anything1  for 
myself,  it  would  seem,  and  nothing  to  save  a  friend.  But  I 
rill  really  tr 

•■  I ;  □  a  good  monl  hful." 

"  I  -will  try.     And  yon  will  finish  the  glass  ?" 

'•  With  vimr  permission,  if  you  do  not  leave  too  much." 

They  were  to  drink  out  of  the  same  glass;  and  she  -was  to 

drink    some   of  this  infamous   mixture:    and   she   was  in  a 

kind   of   hotel   alone   with   him:    and  he  was  drenched   in 

running  after  her: — all  this  came  of  breaking  loose  for  an 

r ! 

••  ( >h  !  what  a  misfortune  that  it  should  he  such  ad;i\, 
Mr.  Whitford." 

••  I  »id  you  not  choose  the  day  ?" 

"  No!  the  weather." 

Lnd  the  worsi  of  it  is,  that  Willonghby  will  come  upon 
<  --jay  wet  to  the  bone,  and  pump  him  and  get  nothing 
but  shu  Hings,  blank  lies,  and  then  find  him  out  and  chase 
him  from  the  house." 

tra  drank  immediately,  and  more  than   she  intended. 
Sip   held  the  glass  as  an  enemy  to  be  delivered  from,  gasp- 
nncertain  of  her  breath. 
••  Never  let  me  be  asked  to  endure  such  a  thing  again  !" 
:    are  unlikely  to  be  running  away  from  father  and 
again." 
Sin-  panted  still  with  the  fiery  liquid  she  had  gulped  :   and 
she  wondered  that    it   should  belie  its   reputation  in  not  for- 
tifying her,  but  rendering   her  painfully  susceptible  to  tiis 

'•.Mr.  Whitford,  I  need  not  seek  to  know  what  you    think 

Of   I: 

•What    I   think?      I  don't    think   at   all;   I  wish    to  serve 
.  i;    1  can." 
"Am    I    right   in    bi  a  little    afraid    of    me? 

should  I  have  deceived  no  one.     I  have  opened 

my  hearl  to  yon.  and  am  not  ashamed  of  having  done  so." 
"  1'  i-  aii  excellent  hahit,  they  say." 

ibh   with  !• 

ached,  and  for  that  reason,  in  his  dissatisfaction 


AT  THE  RAILWAY  STATION.  261 

with  himself,  not  unwilling  to  hurt.  "  We  take  our  turn, 
Miss  Miudleton.  I'm  no  hero,  and  a  bad  conspirator,  so  I  am 
not  of  much  avail." 

"  You  have  been  reserved — but  I  am  going,  and  I  leave 
my  character  behind.  You  condemned  me  to  the  poison- 
bowl  ;  you  have  not  touched  it  yourself." 

"  In  vino  Veritas :  if  1  do  I  shall  be  speaking  my  mind." 

"  Then  do,  for  the  sake  of  mind  and  body." 

"It  won't  be  complimentary." 

"  You  can  be  harsh.     Only  say  everything." 

"  Have  we  time  ?" 

They  looked  at  their  watches. 

"  Six  minutes,"  Clara  said. 

Vernon's  had  stopped,  penetrated  by  his  total  drenching. 

She  reproached  herself.  He  laughed  to  quiet  her.  "  My 
dies  solemnes  are  sure  to  give  me  duckings  ;  I'm  used  to 
them.  As  for  the  watch,  it  will  remind  me  that  it  stopped 
when  you  went." 

She  raised  the  glass  to  him.  She  was  happier  and  hoped 
for  some  little  harshness  and  kindness  mixed  that  she  mi°-ht 
carry  away  to  travel  with  and  think  over. 

He  turned  the  glass  as  she  had  given  it,  turned  it  round 
in  putting-  it  to  his  lips  :  a  scarce  perceptible  manoeuvre,  but 
that  she  had  given  it  expressly  on  one  side. 

It  may  be  hoped  that  it  was  not  done  by  design.  Done 
even  accidentally,  without  a  taint  of  contrivance,  it  was  an 
affliction  to  see,  and  coiled  through  her,  causing  her  to 
shrink  and  redden. 

Fugitives  are  subject  to  strange  incidents  ;  they  are  not 
vessels  lying  safe  in  harbour.  She  shut  her  lips  tight,  as  if 
they  had.  been  stung.  The  realizing  sensitiveness  of  her 
quick  nature  accused  them  of  a  loss  of  bloom.  And  tbe 
man  who  made  her  smart  like  this  was  formal  as  a  railway- 
official  on  a  platform ! 

"  Now  we  are  both  pledged  in  the  poison-bowl,"  said  he. 
"  And  it   has  the  taste  of  rank  poison,  I   confess.     But  tho 
doctor  prescribed  it,  and  at  sea  we  must  be  sailors.     Now 
Miss  Middleton,  time  presses  :  will  you  return  wdth  me  ?" 

"No!  no!" 

"  Where  do  you  propose  to  go  ?" 

"  To  London  ;  to  a  friend — Miss  Darleton." 

"  What  message  is  there  for  your  father  ?" 


TIM    EGOIST. 

Say,  T  have  left  a  letter  £or  him  in  a  letter  to  be  deli- 
\     ed  i"  you." 
"Tome.     Ami  what  *e  for  Willoughby  ?" 

"My  maid  Barclay  will  hand  liim  a  letter  at  noon." 
"  You  have  sealed  Crossjay's  fate." 
"  II  m  r  " 

"He  is  probaby  at  this  instant  undergoing  an  interrop-a- 
tion.  Yon  may  guess  at  his  replies.  The  letter  will  expose 
him,  and  Willoughby  does  not  pardon." 

"I    regret  it.     I  cannot  avoid    it.     Poor  boy !     My  dear 

ay!     I  did  not  think  of  how  Willoughby  might  punish 

him.      I  was  very  thoughtless.     Mr.  Whitiord,  my  pin  money 

shall  go  for  his  education.     Later,  when  I  am  a  little  older, 

I  shall  be  aide  to  support  him." 

u  That's  an  encumbrance ;  you  should  not  tie  yourself  to 
i'   about.     You  are  inalterable,  of  course,  but  circum- 
-  are  not,  and  as  it  happens,  women  are  more  subject 
to  t hem  than  we  are." 
••  But  I  will  not  be!" 

"Your  command  of  them  is  shown  at  the  present  moment." 
"  Because  1  determine  to  be  free  ?  " 

"  No:   because  you  do  the  contrary;  you  don't  determine; 

you  run  away  from  the  difficulty,  and  leave  it  to  your  father 

to  hear.     As  for  Crossjay,  3rou  see  you  destroy 

of  his  chances.      I   should  have  carried  him  off  before 

.  if  1  had  not  thought  it  prudent  to  keep  him  on  tei-ms 

with    Willoughby.     We'll  let  Crossjay   stand   aside.     He'll 

behave  like  a  man  of  honour,  imitating  others  who  have  had 

to  do  the  same  for  ladies." 

*  Ha  en   falsely  to  shelter  cowards,  you  mean,  Mr. 

Whitford.     Oh!      1   know. — I  have  but  two  minutes.     The 

at.     [  cannot  go  back.     I  must  get  ready.     Will  you 

me    to  the   station  ?      I    would  lather  you  .should  hurry 

"  I  will  see  the  last  of  you.  1  will  wait  for  you  here.  An 
express  run-  ahead  of  your  train,  and  I  have  srranged  with 
the  clerk  for  a  signal ;  1  have  an  eye  on  the  window." 

"  You  are  still  my  best  friend,  Mr.  Whitford." 

"Tl  m-  gh P  " 

'•  Well  though  you  do  not  perfectly  understand  what 
t  •  -  1  ave  driven  me  to  this.'' 

"  tarried  on  tides  and  blown  by  winds  ?" 


AT  THE  RAILWAY  STATION.  2G3 

u  Ah  !  you  do  not  understand." 

"  Mysteries  ?  " 

"Sufferings  are  not  mysteries,  they  are  very  simple  facts." 

"Well,  then,  I  don't  understand.  Bat  decide  at  once.  I 
wish  you  to  have  your  free  will." 

She  left  the  room. 

Dry  stockings  and  boots  are  better  for  travelling  in  than 
wet  ones,  but  m  spite  of  her  direct  resolve,  she  felt  when 
drawing  them  on  like  one  that  has  been  tripped.  The  goal 
was  desireable,  the  ardour  was  damped.  Vernon's  wish 
that  she  should  have  her  free  will,  compelled  her  to  sound 
it :  and  it  was  of  course  to  go,  to  be  liberated,  to  cast  off 
incubus  : — and  hurt  her  father  ?  injure  Crossjay  ?  distress 
her  f  rienels  ?     No,  and  ten  times  no  ! 

She  returned  to  Vernon  in  haste,  to  shun  the  reflex  of 
her  mind. 

He  was  looking  at  a  closed  carriage  drawn  up  at  the 
station-door. 

"  Shall  we  run  over  now,  Mr.  Whitford  ?  " 

"  There's  no  signal.     Here  it's  not  so  chilly." 

"I  ventured  to  enclose  my  letter  to  papa  in  yours,  trusting 
you  would  attend  to  my  request  to  you  to  break  the  news  to 
him  gently  and  plead  for  me." 

"  We  will  all  do  the  utmost  we  can." 

"  I  am  doomed  to  vex  those  who  care  for  me.  T  tried  to 
follow  your  counsel." 

"First  you  spoke  to  me,  and  then  you  spoke  to  Miss  Dale; 
and  at  least  you  have  a  clear  conscience." 

"  No." 

"  What  burdens  it  ?  " 

"I  have  clone  nothing  to  burden  it." 

"  Then  it's  a  clear  conscience  ?  " 

"No." 

Vernon's  shoulders  jerked.  Our  patience  with  an  innocent 
duplicity  in  women  is  measured  by  the  place  it  assigns  to  us 
and  another.  If  he  had  liked  he  could  have  thought :  'You 
have  not  d<  n9  but  meditated  something  to  trouble  con- 
science.' That  was  evident,  and  her  speaking  of  it  was 
proof  too  of  the  willingness  to  be  clear.  He  would  not  help 
her.  Man's  blood,  which  is  the  link  with  women  and  respon- 
ive  to  them  on  the  instant  for  or  against,  obscured  him.  He 
hrugged  anew  when  she  said:  "My  character  would  have 


TTTE  EGOIST. 

been  degraded  utterly  by   my   staying   there.     Could  you 

"Certainly  not   the  degradation  of  yonr  character,"   be 

Raid,  black  on  the  subject  of  De  Craye,  and  not  lightened  by 

■  era  which  made  him  sharply  sensible  of  the  beggarly 

■ndant  that  he  was,  or  poor  adventuring  scribbler  that 

he  was  to  become. 

"  Why  did  yoa  pursue  me  and  wish  to  stop  me.  Mr.  Whit- 
ford  ?  "  Baid  Clara,  on  the  spur  of  a  wound  from  his  tone. 

He   replied:    "I    suppose   I'm  a  busybody:  I   was  never 
aware  ol  it  t  ill  now." 

"You  are  my  friend.  Only  you  speak  in  irony  so  much. 
That  was  irony,  about  my  clear  conscience.  I  spoke  to 
and  to  .Mi>s  hale:  and  then  I  rested  and  drifted, 
('an  you  not  feel  for  me,  that  to  mention  it  is  like  a  Bcorch- 
W  lloughby  has  entangled  papa.  He  schemes 
incessantly  to  keep  me  entangled.  I  fly  from  his  cunning 
as  much  as  from  anything.  I  dread  it.  I  have  told  you 
that  I  am  more  to  blame  than  he,  hut  I  must  accuse  him. 
And  wedding-presents!  and  congratulations!  And  to  be 
hie 

"  All  that  makes  up  a  plea  in  mitigation,"  said  Vernon. 
"It  is  not  sufficient  for  you  ?  "she  asked  him  timidly. 

•u line    good   sense  that  tells  you  you 
■led  if  von  run.    Three  more  days  there  might 
!    with  your  father." 
"He  will  not  li-ieutome!     He  confuses  me;  Willoughhy 
him." 

•    T  will  see  that  he  li- 

"Andgoback?     Oh!  no.     To  London!     Besides  there  is 

with  Mrs.   Mountstuart    this  evening;  and  I  like 

her  •ell,  but   I   must   avoid   her.     She  has  a  kind  of 

i'loi  .  .   And  what  answers  can  [give?    I  supplicate 

her   with   1  S         ibserves   them,  my  efforts  to  divert 

them  from  being  painful  produce  a  comic  expression  to  her, 

I  am  a  charming  *  rogue,'  and  I   am  entertained  on  the 

topii  to  be  principally  interesting  me.     I  must 

avoid  her.     The  thought  of  her  [eaves  me  no  choice.     She  is 

•  p.     Rhe  could  tattoo  me  with  epigrams." 

:    the:  an  hold  your  own." 

5he  has  told  me  you  give  me  ere  lit    for  a  spice  of  *vit. 
I  have  not  my   j"  in  .      We   have  spoken   of 


AT  THE  RAILWAY  STATION.  2G5 

it ;  we  call  it  your  delusion.  She  grants  me  some  beauty ; 
that  must  be  hers." 

"There's  no  delusion  in  one  case  or  the  other,  Miss  Middle- 
ton.  You  have  beauty  and  wit :  public  opinion  will  say, 
wildness  :  indifference  to  your  reputation,  will  be  charged 
on  you,  and  your  friends  will  have  to  admit  it.  But  you 
will  be  out  of  this  difficulty." 

"  Ah  ! — to  weave  a  second  ?  " 

"  Impossible  to  judge  until  we  see  how  you  escape  the 
first. — And  I  have  no  more  to  say.  I  love  your  father. 
His  humour  of  sententiousness  and  doctorial  stilts  is  a  mask 
he  delights  in,  but  you  ought  to  know  him  and  not  bo 
frightened  by  it.  If  you  sat  with  him  an  hour  at  a  Latin 
task,  and  if  you  took  his  hand  and  told  him  you  could  not 
leave  him,  and  no  tears ! — he  would  answer  you  at  once.  It 
would  involve  a  day  or  two  further  :  disagreeable  to  you,  no 
doubt :  preferable  to  the  present  mode  of  escape,  as  I  think. 
But  I  have  no  power  whatever  to  persuade.  I  have  not  the 
4  lady's  tongue.'     My  appeal  is  always  to  reason." 

"  It  is  a  compliment.     I  loathe  the  '  lady's  tongue.' ' 

"  It's  a  distinctly  good  gift,  and  I  wish  I  had  it.  I  might 
have  succeeded  instead  of  failing,  and  appeai-ing  to  pay  a 
compliment." 

"  Surely  the  express  train  is  very  late,  Mr.  Whitford  ?  " 

"  The  express  has  gone  by." 

"  Then  we  will  cross  over." 

"  You  would  rather  not  be  seen  by  Mrs.  Mountstuart. 
That  is  her  carriage  drawn  up  at  the  station,  and  she  is 
m  it. 

Clara  looked,  and  with  the  sinking  of  her  heart  said  :  "  I 
must  brave  her  !  " 

"  In  that  case,  I  will  take  my  leave  of  you  here,  Miss 
Middleton." 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  "  Whv  is  Mrs.  Mountstuart  at 
the  station  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  she  has  driven  to  meet  one  of  the  guests  for 
her  dinner-party.  Professor  Crooklyn  was  promised  to 
your  father,  and  he  may  be  coming  by  the  down-train." 

"  Go  back  to  the  Hall !  "  exclaimed  Clara.  "  How  can  I  ? 
I  have  no  more  endurance  left  in  me.  If  I  had  some 
support! — if  it  were  the  sense  of  secretly  doing  wrong,  it 
might  help  me  through.     I  am  in  a  web.    I  cannot  do  right, 


Tni:  EGOIST. 

what  •  T  do.  There  is  only  fclie  thought  of  paving  Cross- 
jay.  Yes,  and  sparing  papa. — Good-bye,  Mr.  Whitford.  I 
shall    remember   your    kindness   gratefolly.      I   cannot  go 

'•  Von  will  not  ?  "  said  he,  tempting"  her  to  hesitate. 

"Hut  if  yon  are  seen  by   Mrs.  Mountstuart,  yon  must  #o 
!  I'll  do  my  besl  to   take   her   away.       Should   she   see 

yon,  you  must  patch  np  a  story  and  apply  to  her  for  a  lift. 
That.  I  think,  is  imperal ive." 
••  Not  in  my  mind,"  said  Clara. 

He  bowed  hurriedly  and  withdrew.     After  her  confession, 

iliar  to  her,  of  possibly  finding  sustainment  in  secretly 

cluing  wrong,  her  fl\  ing  or  remaining  seemed  to  him  a  choice 

of  evils:    and  whilst  she  stm>d  in  bewildered  speculation  on 

his   reason   for   pursuing  her — which  was  not   evident — he 

remembered  the  special  Bear  inciting  him,  and  so  far  did  her 

jnstice  as  to  have  at  himself  on  that  subject.     He  had  done 

something  perhaps  to  save  her  from  a  cold:    such   was  his 

only  consolatory  thought.     He  had  also  behaved  like  a  man 

of   honour,  taking  no  personal  advantage  of  her  situation; 

to  refled   on  it  recalled  his  astonishing  dryness.     The 

t  man  of  honour  plays  a  part  that  he  should  not  reflect 

till  about  the  fall  of  the  curtain,  otherwise  he   will  be 

imetimea  to  feel  the  shiver  of  foolishness  at  his  good 

duct. 


CHAPTEB  XXVIII. 

THE  RETUBN. 


Posted  in  observation  at  a  corner  of  the  window,  Clara 
Vernon  cross  the  road  to  Mrs.  Mbuntfatuarl   Jenkinson's 

"■I  to  the  ]ia'e-t  pattern  of  himself  by 
narrowed  shoulders  and  raised  coat-collar.  He  had  such  an 
air  of  Baying,  '  Tom's  a-cold,'  thai  her  skin  crept  in  sym- 
pathy. 


THE  EETURN.  20 7 

Presently  he  left  the  carriage  and  went  into  the  station : 
a  bell  had  rung.  Was  it  her  train?  He  approved  her 
going,  for  he  was  employed  in  assisting  her  to  go  :  a  pro- 
ceeding at  variance  with  many  things  he  had  said,  but  be 
was  as  full  of  contradiction  to-day  as  women  are  accused  of 
being.  The  train  came  up.  She  trembled :  no  signal  had 
appeared,  and  Vernon  must  have  deceived  her. 

He  returned  ;  he  entered  the  carriage,  and  the  wheels 
were  soon  in  motion.  Immediately  thereupon,  Flitch's  fly 
drove  past,  containing  Colonel  De  Crave. 

Vernon  could  not  but  have  perceived  him  ! 

But  what  was  it  that  had  brought  the  colonel  to  this 
place  ?  The  pressure  of  Vernon's  mind  was  on  her  and 
foiled  her  efforts  to  assert  her  perfect  innocence,  though  she 
knew  she  had  done  nothing  to  allure  the  colonel  hither. 
Excepting  Willoughby,  Colonel  De  Craye  was  the  last 
person  she  would  have  wished  to  encounter. 

She  had  now  a  dread  of  hearing  the  bell  which  would 
tell  her  that  Vernon  had  not  deceived  her,  and  that  she  was 
out  of  his  hands,  in  the  hands  of  some  one  else. 

She  bit  at  her  glove  ;  she  glanced  at  the  concentrated  eyes 
of  the  publican's  family  portraits,  all  looking  as  one  ;  she 
noticed  the  empty  tumbler,  and  went  round  to  it  and  touched 
it,  and  the  silly  spoon  in  it. 

A  little  yielding  to  desperation  shoots  us  to  strange  dis- 
tances ! 

Vernon  had  asked  her  whether  she  was  alone.  Connect- 
ing that  inquiry,  singular  in  itself,  and  singular  in  his 
manner  of  putting  it,  with  the  glass  of  burning  liquid,  she 
repeated  :  '  He  must  have  seen  Colonel  De  Craye  !  '  and  she 
stared  at  the  empty  glass,  as  at  something  that  witnessed  to 
something  :  for  Vernon  was  not  your  supple  cavalier 
assiduously  on  the  smirk  to  pin  a  gallantry  to  common- 
places. But  all  the  doors  are  not  open  in  a  young  lady's 
consciousness,  quick  of  nature  though  she  may  be  :  some  are 
locked  and  keyless,  some  will  not  open  to  the  key,  some  are 
defended  by  ghosts  inside.  She  could  not  have  said  what 
the  something  witnessed  to.  If  we  by  chance  know  more, 
we  have  still  no  right  to  make  it  more  prominent  than  it 
was  with^  er.  And  the  smell  of  the  glass  was  odious  ;  it 
disgraced  her.  She  had  an  impulse  to  pocket  the  spoon  for 
a    memento,    to    show    it  to  grandchildren  for  a   warning. 


Tin:  EGOIST. 

Bven  the  prelude  to  the  morality  to  he  uttered  on  the 
occasion  sprang  bo  her  lips :  '  I  [ere,  my  dears,  is  a  spoon  you 
wmild  be  ashamed  to  use  in  your  tea-cups,  yet  it  was  of 
more  value  to  incut  one  period  of  my  life  khan  silver  and 
gold  in  pointing  out,  Ac  :  '  the  conclusion  was  hazy,  like  the 
concepi  ion  ;  she  had  her  idea. 

Ami  in  this  mood  she  ran  downstairs  and  met  Colonel  De 
( 'r:i;.  c  on  t  In-  stai  ion  steps. 

The  bright  illumination  of  his  face  was  that  of  the  confident 
man  confirmed  in  a  risky  guess  in  I  he  crisis  of  don btand  dispute. 

•  Miss  Middleton  !"  his  joyful  surprise  predominated  :  the 
pride  of  an  accurate  forecast,  adding:  "  I  am  not  too  late  to 
be  of  sen  ice  :  " 

She  thanked  him  for  the  offer. 
■•  Have  yon  dismissed  the  fly,  Colonel  De  Craye?" 
"I   have  just   been  Lrettin»  change  to  pay  Air.  Flitch.      He 
:       "il  me  on  the  road.     He  is  interwound  with  our  fates  to 
Utility.      I    had   only  to  jump  in;    1  knew  it,  and  rolled 
rig  like  a  magician  commanding  a  genie." 
■  Have  I  been  ....?" 

rionsly,  nohody  doubts  your  being  under  shelter. 
Y"  i  will  allow  me  to  protect  you  ?      My  time  is  yours." 

•  I  was  thinking  of  a  running  visit  to  my  friend  Miss 
Darleton." 

'■  May  I  venture  ?  I  had  the  fancy  that  you  wished  to  see 
Miss    Darleton  to-day.      Von  cannot  make  the  journey  un- 

rt'-d." 

••  Please  n  tain  the  fly.     Where  is  Will oughby  ?  " 
'•  He  is  in  jack-boots.     But  may  I  not,  Aliss  Middleton? 
I  shall  never  be  forgiven,  if  you  refuse  me." 
'•  Tin-re  has  been  searching  for  me  ?  " 

"Some   hallooing.      But   why  am   I  rejected?     "Besides  T 

don't  require  the  By;   I  shall  walk  if  lam  banished.     Flitch 

wonderful  conjuror,  but  the  virtue  is  out  of  him  for  the 

ir  and  twenty  hours.      And   it  will  be  an  opportunity 

to  me  to  make  my  how  to  Miss  Darleton  ! " 

is    rigorous    on    the  conventionalities,    Colonel    De 
| 

•  I  II  appear  before  her  as  an  ignoramus  or  a  rebel,  which- 
ever she  HI  ■  to  take  in  hading  strings.  I  remember 
her-.      I  was  greatly  struck  by  her." 

"  Upon  recollection  !  " 


THE  RETURN".  209 

"  Memory  didn't  happen  to  be  handy  at  the  first  mention 
of  the  lady's  name.  As  the  general  said  of  his  ammu- 
nition and  transport,  there's  the  army  ! — but  it  was  leagues 
in  the  rear.  Like  the  footman  who  went  to  sleep  after 
smelling  fire  in  the  house,  I  was  thinking  of  other  things. 
It  will  serve  me  right  to  be  forgotten— if  I  am.  I've  a 
curiosity  to  know  :  a  remainder  of  my  coxcombry.  Not  that 
exactly:  a  wish  to  see  the  impression  I  made  on  your  friend. 
— None  at  all  ?     But  any  pebble  casts  a  ripple." 

"  That  is  hardly  an  impression,"  said  Clara,  pacifying 
her  irresoluteness  with  this  light  talk. 

"  The  utmost  to  be  hoped  for  by  men  like  me  !     I  have 
your  permission  ? — one  minute — I  will  get  my  ticket." 
"  Do  not,"  said  Clara. 
"  Your  man-servant  entreats  you  !  " 

She  signified  a  decided  negative  with  the  head,  but  her 
eyes  were  dreamy.  She  breathed  deep  :  this  thing  done 
would  cut  the  cord.  Her  sensation  of  languor  swept  over 
her. 

De  Craye  took  a  stride.  He  was  accosted  by  one  of  the 
railway-porters.  Flitch's  fly  was  in  request  for  a  gentleman. 
A  portly  old  gentleman  bothered  about  luggage  appeared 
on  the  landing. 

"  The  gentleman  can  have  it,"  said  De  Craye,  handing 
Flitch  his  money. 

"  Open  the  door,"  Clara  said  to  Flitch. 
He  tugged  at  the  handle  with  enthusiasm.     The  door  was 
open  :  she  stepped  in. 

"  Then,  mount  the  box  and  I'll  jump  up  beside  you,"  De 
Craye  called  out,  after  the  passion  of  regretful  astonishment 
had  melted  from  his  features. 

Clara  directed  him  to  the  seat  fronting  her;  he  protested 
indifference  to  the  wet ;  she  kept  the  door  nnshut.  His 
temper  would  have  preferred  to  buffet  the  angry  weather. 
The  invitation  was  too  sweet. 

She  heard  now  the  bell  of  her  own  train.  Driving  beside 
the  railway  embankment  she  met  the  train  :  it  was  eighteen 
minutes  late,  by  her  watch.  And  why,  when  it  flung  up  its 
whale-spouts  of  steam,  she  was  not  journeying  in  it  she 
could  not  tell.  She  had  acted  of  her  free  will:  that  she 
could  say.  Vernon  had  not  induced  her  to  remain;  as- 
suredly her    present    companion    had  not ;  and  her  whole 


270  THE  EGOIST. 

heart  was  for  flight:  yet  she  was  driving  back  to  the  Hall, 
ii,, i  devoid  of  calmness.    She  speculate  1  on  the  circumstance 
to  think  herself  incomprehensible,  and  there  left  it, 
intent  on  the  scene  to  come  with  Willoughby. 

••  I  in  is!  choose  a  better  day  for  London,"  she  remarked. 

De  <  !raye  bowed,  but  did  not  remove  his  eyes  from  her. 

"  Miss  Middleton,  yon  do  not  trust  me." 

She  answered:  "  Say  in  what  way.     It  seems  to  me  that 
ldo." 

••  1  may  speak  ?  " 

M  If  it  depends  on  my  authority." 

"  Fully  ?" 

u  Whatever  yon  have  to  say.  Let  me  stipulate,  be  not 
very  grave.     I  want  cheering  in  wet  weather." 

"Miss  Middleton,  Flitch  is  charioteer  once  more.  Think 
of  it  There's  a  tide  that  carries  him  perpetually  to  the 
place  whence  he  was  cast  forth,  and  a  thread  that  ties  us  to 
him  in  continuity.  I  have  not  the  honour  to  be  a  friend  of 
nir:  one  ventures  on  one's  devotion:  it  dates  from 
I  first  moment  of  my  seeing1  you.  Flitch  is  to  blame,  if 
anyone.  Perhaps  the  spell  would  be  broken,  were  he  re- 
instai  i  d  in  his  ancient  office." 

••  Perhaps   it    would,"'    said   Clara,   not    with    her  best  of 
smiles.      Willoughby's  pride  of  relentlessness  appeared  to 
to  be  receiving  a  blow  by  rebound,  and  that  seemed 
h  jus!  ice. 

"'  I   am  afraid  you  were   right;    the  poor  fellow   has  no 
ace,"   De  Craye  pursued.     He  paused,  as  for  decorum  in 
the  presence  of  misfortune,  and  laughed  sparkingly:  "Un- 
I  him,   or   pretend    to!       I   verily   believe  that 

Flitch's  melancholy  person  on  the  skirts  of  the  Hall  com- 
pletes the  picture  of  the  Eden  within. — Why  will  you  not 
put  some  trust  in  me,  Miss  Middleton?" 

"J5ut  why  should  you  not  pretend  to  engage  him,  then, 

Colonel    D(     I 

"  We'll  plot  it.  if  you  like.     Can  you  trust  me  for  that?" 

"  I'  ir  any  act  of  disinter*  st  id  kindness,  I  am  sure." 

"  V  in  it  ?  " 

"Without  reserve.  You  could  talk  publicly  of  taking 
him  to  London." 

"Miss  Middleton,  just  now  you  were  goinq-.  My  arrival 
changed  your  mind.   You  distrust  me:  and  ought  I  to  wonder? 


TTIE  RETURN. 


271 


The  wonder  would  be  all  the  other  way.  Ton  have  not  had 
the  sort  of  report  of  me  which  would  persuade  you  to  con- 
fide, even  in  a  case  of  extremity.  I  guessed  you  were  going. 
Do  you  ask  me,  how  ?  I  cannot  say.  Through  what  they 
call  sympathy,  and  that's  inexplicable.  There's  natural 
sympathy,  natural  antipathy.  People  have  to  live  together 
to  discover  how  deep  it  is  !  " 

Clara  breathed  her  dumb  admission  of  this  truth. 

The  fly  jolted  and  threatened  to  lurch. 

"  Flitch  !  my  dear  man  !  "  the  colonel  gave  a  murmuring 
remonstrance;  "for,"  said  he  to  Clara,  whom  his  apostrophe 
to  Flitch  had  set  smiling,  "  we're  not  safe  with  him,  however 
we  make  believe,  and  he'll  be  jerking  the  heart  out  of  me 
before  he  has  done. — But  if  two  of  us  have  not  the  misfortune 
to  be  united  when  they  come  to  the  discovery,  there's  hope. 
That  is,  if  one  has  courage,  and  the  other  has  wisdom. 
Otherwise  they  may  go  to  the  yoke  in  spite  of  themselves. 
The  great  enemy  is  Pride,  who  has  them  both  in  a  coach  and 
drives  them  to  the  fatal  door,  and  the  only  thing  to  do 
is  to  knock  him  off  his  box  while  there's  a  minute  to  spare. 
And  as  there's  no  pride  like  the  pride  of  possession,  the 
deadliest  wound  to  him  is  to  make  that  doubtful.  Pride  won't 
be  taught  wisdom  in  any  other  fashion.  But  one  must  have 
the  courage  to  do  it  !  " 

De  Craye  trifled  with  the  window-sash,  to  give  his  words 
time  to  sink  in  solution. 

Who  but  Willoughby  stood  for  Pride  ?  And  who,  swayed 
by  languor,  had  dreamed  of  a  method  that  would  be  surest 
and  swiftest  to  teach  him  the  wisdom  of  surrendering  her  ? 

"  You  know,  Miss  Middleton,  I  study  character,"  said  the 
colonel. 

"  I  see  that  you  do,"  she  answered. 

"You  intend  to  return  ?" 

"  Oh !  decidedly." 

"  The  day  is  unfavourable  for  travelling,  I  must  say. 

"It  is." 

"  You  may  count  on  my  discretion  in  the  fullest  degree. 
I  throw  mysslf  on  your  generosity  when  I  assure  you  that 
it  was  not  my  design  to  surprise  a  secret.  I  guessed  tho 
station,  and  went  there,  to  put  myself  at  your  disposal." 

"  Did  you,"  said  Clara,  reddening  slightly,  "  chance  to  see 


•J72  THE  EGOIST. 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  Jenkinson's  carriage  pass  you  when  you 
drove  up  to  the  stal  ion  P  " 

DeCraye  had  passed  a  carriage.     "I  did  not  see  the  lady. 

She  was  in  it  ?  "  .        •   . 

■'  Yes.  And  therefore  it  is  better  to  put  discretion  on  ono 
Bide  :  we  may  be  certain  she  saw  you." 

•■  Bui  not  you,  Miss  Middleton?" 

"I  prefi  rto  think  that  1  am  seen.  I  have  a  description 
of  courage,  Colonel  De  Craye,  when  it  is  forced  on  me." 

••  |  have  uot  suspected  the  reverse.  Courage  wants  tram- 
in.  !1  as  other  fine  capacities.     Mine  is  often  rusty  and 

rheumal  ic." 

•  I  cannot  hear  of  concealment  or  plotting." 
"Except,  pray,  to  advance  the  cause  of  poor  Flitch!" 

"  He  shall  be  excepte  I." 

The  colonel  screwed  his  head  round  for  a  glance  at   his 
•hman's  back. 

"  Perfectly  guaranteed  to-day !"  he  said  of  Flitch's  look 
of  solidity.  "The  convulsion  of  the  elements  appears  to 
sober  our  friend  ;  he  is  only  dangerous  iu  calms.  Five  minutes 
will  bring  us  to  the  park-gates." 

( Jlara  leaned  forward  to  gaze  at  the  hedgeways  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  Hall,  strangely  renewing  their  familiarity 
with  her.  Both  in  thought  and  sensation  she  was  like  a 
flower  beaten  to  earth,  and  she  thanked  her  feminine  mask 
for  uoi  showing  how  nerveless  and  languid  she  was.  She 
could  have  accused  Vernon  of  a  treacherous  cunning  for  im- 
posing it  on  her  tree  will  to  decide  her  fate. 

Involuntarily  she  sighed. 

"There  is  a  train  at  three,"  said  De  Craye,  with  splendid 
prompt  it  ude. 

•■  5Tes,  and  one  at  five.      We    dine    with    Mrs.    Mountstuart 
to-night.     And  I  have  a  passion  Eor  solitude!     I  think  I  was 
•intended  for  obligations.     The  moment  I  am  bound  I 
begin  to  brood  on  freedom." 

"Ladies  who  say  that,  Miss  Middleton !  .  .  .  ." 

"  What   of  then,  : 

"  They're  feeling  too  much  alone.  " 

She  could  nol  combal  the  remark:  by  her  self-assurance 
thai  she  had  the  principle  of  faithfulness,  she  acknowledged 
to  herself  t  he  I  nil  h  of  it : — there  is  no  freedom  for  the  weak ! 
Vernon  had  said  that  once.     She  tried  to  resist   the   weight 


THE  EETUKN. 


273 


pf  it,  and  her  sheer  inability  precipitated  her  into  a  sense  of 
pitiful  dependence. 

Half  an  hour  earlier  it  would  have  been  a  perilous  con- 
dition to  be  traversing  in  the  society  of  a  closely- scanning 
reader  of  fair  faces.  Circumstances  had  changed.  They 
were  at  the  gates  of  the  park. 

"  Shall  I  leave  you  ?  "  said  De  Craye. 

"  Why  should  you  ?  "  she  replied. 

He  bent  to  her  gracefully. 

The  mild  subservience  flattered  Clara's  languor.  He  had 
not  compelled  her  to  be  watchful  on  her  guard,  and  she 
was  unaware  that  he  passed  it  when  she  acquiesced  to  his 
observation  :  "  An  anticipatory  story  is  a  trap  to  the  teller.' 

"  It  is,"  she  said.     She  bad  been  thinking  as  much. 

He  threw  up  his  head  to  consult  the  brain  comically 
with  a  dozen  little  blinks. 

"  No,  you  are  right,  Miss  Middleton,  inventing  before- 
hand never  prospers ;  'tis  a  way  to  trip  our  own  cleverness. 
Truth  and  mother-wit  are  the  best  counsellors  :  and  as  you 
are  the  former,  I'll  try  to  act  up  to  the  character  you 
assign  me." 

Some  tangle,  more  prospective  than  present,  seemed  to 
be  about  her  as  she  reflected.  But  her  intention  being  to 
speak  to  Willoughby  without  subterfuge,  she  was  grateful 
to  her  companion  for  not  tempting  her  to  swerve.  No 
one  could  doubt  his  talent  for  elegant  fibbing,  and  she  was 
in  the  humour  both  to  admire  and  adopt  the  art,  so  she 
was  glad  to  be  rescued  from  herself.  How  mother-wit  was 
to  second  truth,  she  did  not  inquire,  and  as  she  did  not 
happen  to  be  thinking  of  Crossjay,  she  was  not  troubled 
by  having  to  consider  how  truth  and  his  tale  of  the 
morning  would  be  likely  to  harmonize. 

Driving  down  the  park  she  had  full  occupation  in 
questioning  whether  her  return  would  be  pleasing  to  "Vernon, 
who  was  the  virtual  cause  of  it,  though  he  had  done  so 
little  to  promote  it :  so  little  that  she  really  doubted  hia 
pleasure  in  seeing  her  return. 


274  THE  EUOIST. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

IN  wniCH  THE  SKKSITTVENESS   OF   SIR  WILLOUGHBY  IS  EXPLAINED: 
AND  HE  RECEIVES  .MICH  INSTRUCTION. 

The  Hall-clock  over  the  stablea  was  then  striking  twelve. 
It-  was  the  hour  for  her  flight  to  be  made  known,  anil 
Cl.u.i  sat  in  a  turmoil  of  dim  apprehension  that  prepared 
her  in  pvous  frame  for  a  painful  blush  on  her  being  asked  by 
Colonel  De  Cray e -whether  she  had  set  her  watch  correctly. 
He  iiiii-t,  she  understood,  have  seen  through  her  at  the 
breakfast-table:  and  was  she  not  cruelly  indebted  to  him 
for  her  evasion  of  Willoughby  P  Such  perspicacity  of  vision 
distressed  and  frightened  her;  at  the  same  time  she  was 
obliged  to  acknowledge  that  he  had  not  presumed  on  it. 
Her  dignity  was  in  no  way  the  -worse  for  him.  But  it  had 
bet  a  ai  a  man's  mercy,  and  there  was  the  affliction. 

She  jumped  from  the  fly  as  if  she  were  leaving  danger 
behind.  She  could  at  the  moment  have  greeted  Willoughby 
with  a  conventionally  friendly  smile.  The  doors  -were 
thrown  open  and  young  Crossjay  flew  out  to  her.  He  hung 
arid  danced  on  her  hand,  pressed  the  hand  to  his  mouth, 
hardly  believing  thai  he  saw  and  touched  her,  and  in  a  lingo 
and  asterisks  related  how  Sir  Willoughby  had 
found  him  under  the  boathouse  caves  and  pumped  him,  and 
had  been  seni  off  to  Hoppner's  farm,  where  there  was  a  sick 
child,  and  on  along  the  road  to  a  labourer's  cottage:  "  Foi 
I  bid  you're  so  kind  to  poor  people,  Miss  Middleton;  that's 
v  ,,|:"  And   I  said  you  wouldn't  have   me 

with  you  for  tear  of  contagion  !  "      This  was  what  she  had 

d. 

•  Every  crack  and  hamr  in  a  boy's  vocabulary?"  remarked 
the  colonel,  listening  to  him  after  he  had  paid  Flitch. 

The  latter  touched  his  bal  till  he  had  drawn  attention  to 
himself,  when  he  exclaimed  with  rosy  melancholy:  "Ah! 
m  lad;  .  ah  I  colonel,  if  ever  I  lives  to  drink  some  of  the 
old  p-.rt  nine  in  the  old  Hall  at  Christmastide  !"  Their 
h  alths  would  on  thai  occasion  be  drunk,  it  was  implied. 
H     threw  up  h  at  the  windows,  humped  his  body  and 

drove  away. 


SIR  WILLOUGHBY  RECEIVES  INSTRUCTION.  275 

"  Then  Mr.  Whitford  has  not  come  hack  ?  "  said  Clara  to 
Cross  jay. 

"  No,  Miss  Middleton.  Sir  Willoughby  has,  and  he's  up- 
stairs  in  his  room  dressing." 

"  Have  you  seen  Barclay  ?  " 

"  She  has  just  gone  into  the  laboratory.  I  told  her  Sir 
Willoughby  wasn't  there." 

"  Tell  me,  Crossjay,  had  she  a  letter  ?  " 

"She  had  something." 

"  Run  :  say  I  am  here ;  I  want  the  letter,  it  is  mine." 

Crossjay  sprang  away  and  plunged  into  the  arms  of  Sir 
Willoughby. 

"  One  has  to  catch  the  fellow  like  a  football ;  "  exclaimed 
the  injured  gentleman,  doubled  across  the  boy  and  holding 
him  fast,  that  he  might  have  an  object  to  trifle  with,  to  give 
himself  countenance  :'  he  needed  it.  "  Clara,  you  have  not 
been  exposed  to  the  weather  ?  " 

"  Hardly  at  all." 

"  I  rejoice.     You  found  shelter  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"In  one  of  the  cottages  ?  " 

"Not  in  a  cottage;  but  I  was  perfectly  sheltered.  Colonel 
De  Craye  passed  a  fly  before  he  met  me  .  .  .  .  " 

"  Flitch  again  !  "  ejaculated  the  colonel. 

"  Yes,  you  have  luck,  you  have  luck,"  Willoughby  ad- 
dressed him,  still  clutching  Crossjay  and  treating  his  tags 
to  get  loose  as  an  invitation  to  caresses.  But  the  foil  barely 
concealed  his  livid  perturbation. 

"  Stay  by  me,  sir;  "  he  said  at  last  sharply  to  Crossjay, 
and  Clara  touched  the  boy's  shoulder  in  admonishment  of 
him. 

She  turned  to  the  colonel  as  they  stepped  into  the  hall : 
"  I  have  not  thanked  you,  Colonel  De  Craye."  She  dropped 
her  voice  to  its  lowest :  "A  letter  in  my  handwriting  in  the 
laboratory." 

Crossjay  cried  aloud  with  pain. 

"  I  have  you  !  "  Willoughby  rallied  him  with  a  iaugh  not 
unlike  the  squeak  of  his  victim 

"  You  squeeze  awfully  hard,  sir  ! '' 

"  Why,  you  milksop  !  " 

"  Am  I !     But  I  want  to  get  a  book.' 

"  Where  is  the  book  ?  " 

t  2 


27G  THE   MOIST. 

"  In  the  laboratory.'1 

lone)  I  >c  <  !raye,  sauntering  by  the  laboratory  door,  sung 
out:  "'I'll  fetch  you  your  hook.  What  is  it?  Early  Navi. 
gators  ?  Infant  Hymns  ?  I  think  my  cigar  case  is  in 
ht'i  <■  " 

"  Barclay  Bpeaks  of  a  letter  for  me,"  Willoughby  said  to 
Clara,  "  n  arked  to  be  delivered  to  me  at  noon  !  " 

'•  In  case  of  my  not  being  hack  earlier:  it  was  written  to 
averi  anxiety,"  she  replied. 

'"  Von  arc  very  good." 

"  Oh  !  good  !      Call  me  anything  but  good.      Here  are  the 
ladies.      Dear  ladies!"  Clara  swam  to  meet  them  as  they 
Led  from  a  morning- room  into  the  hall;  and  interjections 
reigned  for  a  couple  of  minutes. 

Willoughby    relinquished    his    grasp    of    Crossjay,    who 
I    instantaneously    at    an     angle    to    the    laboratory, 
whither  he  followed,  and  he  encountered  De  Craye  coming 
out,  but  passed  him  in  silence. 

Crossjay  was  ranging  and  peering  all  over  the  room. 
Willoughby  went  to  his  desk  and  the  battery-table  and  the 
mantelpiece.  He  found  no  letter.  Barclay  had  undoubtedly 
informed  him  that  she  had  left  a  letter  for  him  in  the 
laboratory,  by  order  of  her  mistress  after  breakfast. 

He  hurried  out  and  ran  upstairs  in  time  to  see  De  Craye 
and  Barclay  breaking  a  conference. 

"'    '"  to  her.     The  maid  lengthened  her  upper  lip 

beai  her  dress  down  smooth  :  signs  of  the  apprehension 
crisis  and  of  the  getting  ready  for  action. 

"  My  mistress's  bell  has  just  rung,  Sir  Willoughby." 

"  You  had  a  Letter  for  me." 

"1  said    .   .    .   ." 

"  Ton  said  *  ben  I  met  you  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  that 

;  had  left  a  letter  for  me  in  the  laboratory." 

4  It  :  _-  on  my  mistii^'s  toilet-table." 

"Gel  it." 

Barcla  -.nnd  with  another  of  her  demure  grimaces. 

It  was  apparently  necessary  with  her  that  she  should  talk 
to  herself  in  this  public  man' 

Willoughby  waited  for  her;    but  there  was  no  reappear- 
t  be  maid. 

Struck  by  the  ridicule  of  bis  posture  of  expectation  and  of 
his   wind,'   behaviour,   he  went   to  his  bedroom  suite,   shut 


SIR  WILLOUGHBY  RECEIVES  INSTRUCTION.  277 

himself  in  and  paced  the  chambers,  amazed  at  the  creature 
he  had  become.  Agitated  like  the  commonest  of  wretches, 
destitute  of  self-control,  not  able  to  preserve  a  decent  mask, 
he,  accustomed  to  inflict  these  emotions  and  tremours  upon 
others,  was  at  once  the  puppet  and  dupe  of  an  intriguing 
girl.  His  very  stature  seemed  lessened.  The  glass  did  not 
saj  so,  but  the  shrunken  heart  within  him  did,  and  wailfully 
too.  Her  compunction — '  Call  me  anything  but  good  ' — 
coming  after  her  return  to  the  Hall  beside  De  Craye,  and 
after  the  visible  passage  of  a  secret  between  them  in  his 
presence,  was  a  confession:  it  blew  at  him  with  the  fury  of 
a  furnace-blast  in  his  face.  Egoist  agony  wrung  the  outcry 
from  him  that  dupery  is  a  more  blest  condition.  He  desired 
to  be  deceived. 

He  could  desire  such  a  thing  only  in  a  temporary  trans- 
port ;  for  above  all  he  desired  that  no  one  should  know  of 
his  being  deceived  :  and  were  he  a  dupe  the  deceiver  would 
know  it,  and  her  accomplice  would  know  it,  and  the  world 
would  soon  know  of  it :  that  world  against  whose  tongue  he 
stood  defenceless.  Within  the  shadow  of  his  presence  he 
compressed  opinion,  as  a  strong  frost  binds  the  springs  of 
earth,  but  beyond  it  his  shivering  sensitiveness  ran  about  in 
dread  of  a  stripping  in  a  wintry  atmosphere.  This  was  the 
ground  of  his  hatred  of  the  world :  it  was  an  appalling  fear 
on  behalf  of  his  naked  eidolon,  the  tender  infant  Self 
swaddled  in  his  name  before  the  world,  for  which  he  felt  as 
the  most  highly  civilized  of  men  alone  can  feel,  and  which 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  stretch  out  hands  to  protect. 
There  the  poor  little  loveable  creature  ran  for  any  mouth 
to  blow  on ;  and  frost-nipped  and  bruised,  it  cried  to  him, 
and  he  was  of  no  avail !  Must  we  not  detest  a  world  that 
so  treats  us  ?  We  loathe  it  the  more,  by  the  measure  of  our 
contempt  for  them,  when  we  have  made  the  people  within 
the  shadow-circle  of  our  person  slavish. 

And  he  had  been  once  a  young  Prince  in  popularity  :  the 
world  had  been  his  possession.  Clara's  treatment  of  him 
was  a  robbery  of  land  and  subjects.  His  grander  dream 
had  been  a  marriage  with  a  lady  of  so  glowing  a  fame  for 
beauty  and  attachment  to  her  lord  that  the  world  perforce 
must  take  her  for  witness  to  merits  which  would  silence 
detraction  and  almost,  not  quite  (it  was  undesireable),  extin- 
guish envy.     But  for  the  nature  of  women  his  dream  would 


278  1 1 1  K  EGOIST. 

have  been  realized.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  denounce 
tune.  It  had  cost  him  a  grievous  pang  to  tell  Horace 
De  Crave  he  was  lucky ;  he  had  been  educated  in  the  belief 
5hai  Fortune  specially  prized  and  cherished  little  Wil- 
oughhy  :  hence  of  necessity  his  maledictions  fell  upon 
ffomen,  or  he  would  have  forfeited  the  last  blanket  of  a 
dream  warm  as  poets  revel  in. 

But  if  Clara  deceived  him,  he  inspired  her  with  timidity. 
There  was  matter  in  that  to  make  him  wish  to  be  deceived. 
She  had  not  looked  him  much  in  the  face:  she  had  not 
0  >ed  his  eyes:  she  had  looked  deliberately  downward, 
ing  liei-  head  up,  to  preserve  an  exterior  pride.  The 
attitude  had  its  bewitehingness :  the  girl's  physical  pride  of 
ire  scorning  to  bend  under  a  load  of  conscious  guilt,  had 
a  certain  black-angel  beauty  for  which  he  felt  a  hugging 
hatred:  and  according  to  his  policy  when  these  fits  of 
amorous  meditation  seized  him,  he  burst  from  the  present 
one  in  the  mood  of  his  more  favourable  conception  of  Clara, 
and  sought  her  out. 

The  quality  of  the  mood  of  hugging  hatred  is,  that  if  you 
are  disallowed  the  hug,  you  do  not  hate  the  fiercer. 

Contrariwise   the   prescription   of    a  decorous  distance  of 
two  feet  ten  inches,  which  is  by  measurement  the  delimita- 
tion  exacted   of  a  rightly  respectful   deportment,  has  this 
aculous  effect  on  the  great  creature  man,  or  often  it  has  : 
his  peculiar  hatred  returns  to  the  reluctant  admiration 
tting  it,  and  his  passion  for  the   hug  falls  prostrate  as 
of   the    Faithful   before   the  shrine:    he    is    reduced    to 
worship  by  fasi  ing. 

(  For  these  mysteries,  consult  the  sublime  chapter  in  the 
Book,  the  Seventy-Firsi  on  Lovk,  wherein  Nothing  is 
written,  but  the  Reader  receives  a  Lanthorn,  a  Powder-cask 
and  a  Pick-axe,  and  therewith  pursues  his  yellow-dusking 
path  across  the  rabble  of  preceding  excavators  in  the  solitary 
quarry:  a  yet  more  instructive  passage  than  the  over- 
scrawled  Seventieth,  or  French  Section,  whence  the  chapter 

as,  and  wl hitherto  the  polite  world  has  halted.) 

The  hurry  of  the  hero  is  on  us,  we  have  no  time  to  spare 
for  mining- works :  he  hurried  to  catch  her  alone,  to  wreak 
hi-  tortures  on  her  in  a  hitter  semblance  of  bodily  worship, 
and  I,  thou  comfortably  to  spurn.     He  found  her  pro- 

U    led  by  Barclay  on  the  stairs. 


SIR'  WILLOUGHBY  EECEIVES  INSTRUCTION.  279 

"  That  letter  for  me  P"  he  said. 

"  I  think  I  told  you,  Willoughby,  there  was  a  letter  I  lefl 
with  Barclay  to  reassure  you  in  case  of  my  not  returning 
early,"  said  Clara.  "  It  was  unnecessary  for  her  to  deliver  it." 

"Indeed?  But  any  letter,  any  writing,  of  yours,  and 
trom  you  to  me  !     You  have  it  still  ?" 

"ISTo,  I  have  destroyed  it." 

"  That  was  wrong." 

"  It  could  not  have  given  you  pleasure." 

"My  dear  Clara,  one  line  from  you!" 

"  There  were  but  three." 

Barclay  stood  sucking  her  lips.  A  maid  in  the  secrets  of 
Iier  mistress  is  a  purchaseable  maid,  for  if  she  will  take  a 
bribe  with  her  right  hand  she  will  with  her  left;  all  that 
has  to  be  calculated  is  the  nature  and  amount  of  the  bribe  : 
such  was  the  speculation  indulged  by  Sir  Willoughby,  and 
he  shrank  from  the  thought  and  declined  to  know  more  than 
that  he  was  on  a  volcanic  hillside  where  a  thin  crust  quaked 
over  lava.  This  was  a  new  condition  with  him,  represent- 
ing Clara's  gain  in  their  combat.  Clara  did  not  fear  his 
questioning  so  much  as  he  feared  her  candour. 

Mutually  timid,  they  were  of  course  formally  polite,  and 
no  plain-speaking  could  have  told  one  another  more  dis- 
tinctly that  each  was  defensive.  Clara  stood  pledged  to  the 
fib ;  packed,  scaled  and  posted  ;  and  he  had  only  to  ask  to 
have  it,  supposing  that  he  asked  with  a  voice  not  exactly 
peremptory. 

She  said  in  her  heart :  '  It  is  your  fault :  you  are  relent- 
less, and  you  would  ruin  Crossjay  to  punish  him  for  devoting 
himself  to  me,  like  the  poor  thoughtless  boy  he  is !  and  so  I 
am  bound  in  honour  to  do  my  utmost  for  him.' 

The  reciprocal  devotedness  moreover  served  two  purposes : 
it  preserved  her  from  brooding  on  the  humiliation  of  her 
lame  flight  and  flutter  back,  and  it  quieted  her  mind  in 
regard  to  the  precipitate  intimacy  of  her  relations  with 
Colonel  De  Craye.  Willoughby's  boast  of  his  implacable 
character  was  to  blame.  She  was  at  war  with  him,  and  she 
was  compelled  to  put  the  case  in  that  light.  Crossjay  must 
be  shielded  from  one  who  could  not  spare  an  offender,  so 
Colonel  De  Craye  quite  naturally  was  called  on  for  his  help, 
and  the  colonel's  dexterous  aid  appeared  to  her  more 
admirable  than  alarming. 


THE  EGOIST. 

Nevertheless  she  -would  not  liave  answered  a  direct  ques- 
tion falsely.  She  was  Eor  the  fib,  but  not  the  lie  ;  at  a  word 
she  could  be  disdainful  of  subterfuges.  Her  look  said  that. 
Willoughby  perceived  it.  She  had  written  him  a  letter  of 
three  lines  :  M  There  were  but  three:"  and  .she  had  destroyed 
letter.  Something  perchance  was  repented  by  her? 
Then  she  had  done  him  an  injury!  Between  his  wrath  at 
the  suspicion  of  an  injury,  and  the  prudence  enjoined  by  his 
■t  coveting  of  her,  he  consented  to  be  fooled  lor  the  sake 
of  vengeance,  and  something  besides. 

"Well!  here  you  are,  sale:  I  have  you!"  said  he,  with 
courtly  exultation:  "and  that  is  better  than  your  hand- 
writ  inir.      I  have  been  all  over  the  country  after  you." 

"  Why  did  you?  We  are  not  in  a  barbarous  land,"  said 
Clara. 

"  Crossjay  talks  of  your  visiting  a  sick  child,  my  love: — 
yon  have  changed  your  dress  p" 
i  on  see. 

"  The    hoy    declared    you    were    going    to    that    farm    of 
Hoppner's  and  some  cottage.     I  met  at  my  gates  a  tramping 
ibond  who  swore  to  seeing  you  and  the  boy  in  a  totally 
contrary  direction." 

"Did  vou  L'ive  him  money  ?" 

"I  fancy  so." 

"  Then  he  was  paid  for  having  seen  me." 

Willoughby  tossed  his  head:  it  might  be  as  she  suggested; 
i     ;gars  are  liars. 

"  But  who  sheltered  you,  my  dear  Clara?  You  had  not 
hern  bea  rd  of  at  Hoppner's." 

"The  people  have  been  indemnified  for  their  pains.  To 
pay  them  more  would  be  to  spoil  them.  You  disperse 
money  too  liberally.  There  was  no  fever  in  the  place. 
Who  could  have  anticipated  such  a  downpour!  I  want  to 
consult  Miss  I  i.ile  on  the  important  theme  of  a  dress  I  think 
of  wearing  at  Mrs.  Mountstnart's  to-night." 

"  Do.     She  is  unerring." 

"  She  has  excellent  taste." 

M£  •  ery  simply  herself." 

"But  it  b  her.     S he  is  one  of  the  few  women  whom 

I  feel  I  could  not  improve  with  a  touch." 

"  She  has  judgement." 

He  reflected  and  repeated  his  encomium. 


SIR  WILLOUGHBY  RECEIVES  INSTRUCTION.  281 

The  shadow  of  a  dimple  in  Clara's  cheek  awakened  him 
to  the  idea  that  she  bad  struck  him  somewhere:  and  cer- 
tainly he  would  never  again  be  able  to  put  up  the  fiction  of 
her  jealousy  of  Lcetitia.  What,  then,  could  be  this  girl's 
motive  for  praying  to  be  released  ?  The  interrogation 
humbled  him:  he  fled  from  the  answer. 

Willoughby  went  in  search  of  De  Craye.  That  sprightly 
intriguer  had  no  intention  to  let  himself  be  caught  solus.  He 
was  undiscoverable  until  the  assembly  sounded,  when  Clara 
dropped  a  public  word  or  two,  and  he  spoke  in  perfect  har- 
mony with  her.  After  that,  he  gave  his  company  to  Wil- 
loughby for  an  hour  at  billiards,  and  was  well  beaten. 

The  announcement  of  a  visit  of  Mrs.  Mountstuart  Jen- 
kinson  took  the  gentlemen  to  the  drawing-room,  rather 
suspecting  that  something  stood  in  the  way  of  her  dinner- 
party. As  it  happened,  she  was  lamenting  only  the  loss  of 
one  of  the  jewels  of  the  party :  to  wit,  the  great  Professor 
Crooklyn,  invited  to  meet  Dr.  Middleton  at  her  table ;  and 
she  related  how  she  had  driven  to  the  station  by  appointment, 
the  professor  being  notoriously  a  bother-headed  traveller :  as 
was  shown  by  the  fact  that  he  had  missed  his  train  in  town, 
for  he  had  not  arrived  ;  nothing  had  been  seen  of  him.  She 
cited  Vernon  Whitford  for  her  authority  that  the  train  had 
been  inspected  and  the  platform  scoured  to  find  the  professor. 

"  And  so,"  said  she,  "  I  drove  home  your  Green  Man  to  dry 
him ;  he  was  wet  through  and  chattering ;  the  man  was 
exactly  like  a  skeleton  wrapped  in  a  sponge,  and  if  he  escapes 
a  cold  he  must  be  as  invulnerable  as  he  boasts  himself. 
These  athletes  are  terrible  boasters." 

"  They  climb  their  Alps  to  crow,"  said  Clara,  excited  by 
her  apprehension  that  Mrs.  Mountstuart  would  speak  of 
having  seen  the  colonel  near  the  station. 

There  was  a  laugh,  and  Colonel  De  Craye  laughed  loudly 
as  it  flashed  through  him  that  a  quick-witted  impressionable 
girl  like  Miss  Middleton  must,  before  his  arrival  at  the  Hall, 
have  speculated  on  such  obdurate  clay  as  Yernon  Whitford 
was,  with  humourous  despair  at  his  uselessness  to  her. 
Glancing  round,  he  saw  Yernon  standing  fixed  in  a  stare  at 
the  young  lady. 

"  You  "heard  that,  Whitford  ?"  he  said,  and  Clara's  face 
betokening  an  extremer  contrition  than  he  thought  was  de- 
manded, the  colonel  rallied  the  Alpine  climber  for  striving 


2X2  THE  EGOIST. 

to  be  the  tallest  of  them — Signor  Excelsior! — and  described 
■  conquerors  of   mountains  pancaked  on  the  rocks  in 

;  ■',: s,  bleached   hero,  burnt  there,  barked  all 

,  all  to  be  able  to  say  they  bad  been  up  'so  high '—had 
aered  another  mountain!     lie  was  extravagantly  funny 
ami  self-satisfied:  a  conqueror  of  the  sex  having  such  different 
i  j  of  enterprise. 

Vernon  recovered  in  time  to  accept  the  absurdities  heaped 
on  him. 

"Climbing  peaks  won't  compare  with  hunting  a  wriggler," 
Baid  he. 

His  allusion  to  the  incessant  pursuit  of  young  Crossjay  to 
pin  him  to  lessons  was  appreciated. 

i  pa  felt  the  thread  of  the  look  he  cast  from  herself  to 
Colonel  De  Crave.  She  was  helpless,  if  he  chose  to  misjudge 
( 'olonel  De  Crave  did  not ! 
Crossjay  had  the  misfortune  to  enter  the  drawing-room 
while  Mrs.  Mountstuart  was  compassionating  Vernon  for  his 
ducking  in  pursuit  of  the  wriggler;  which  De  Craye  likened 
to  "  g  ting  through  the  river  after  his  eel:"  and  immediat  ly 
there  was  a  cross-questioning  of  the  boy  between  De  Craye 
and  Willoughby  on  the  subject  of  his  latest  truancy,  each 
gentleman  trying  to  run  him  down  in  a  palpable  fib.  They 
were  succeeding  brilliantly  when  Vernon  put  a  stop  to  it  by 
marching  him  oft'  to  hard  labour.  Mrs.  Mountstuart  was  led 
away  to  inspect  the  beautiful  porcelain  service,  the  present  of 
Lady  Busshe.  "  Porcelain  again  !"  she  said  to  Willoughby, 
and  would  have  signalled  to  the  'dainty  rogue'  to  come 
with  them,  had  not  Clara  been  leaning  over  to  La?titia,  talk- 
ing  to  her  in  an  attitude'  too  graceful  to  be  disturbed.  She 
called  his  attention  to  it,  slightly  wondering  at  his  impa- 
tience. She  departed  to  meet  an  afternoon  train  on  the 
ance  that  it  would  land  the  professor.  "But  tell  Dr. 
Middleton,"  said  she,  "  1  fear  1  shall  have  no  one  worthy  of 
him  !  And,"  she  added  to  Willoughby,  as  she  walked  out  to 
her  carriage,  "I  shall  expect  you  to  do  the  great-gunnery 
talk  at  table." 

'•  M  ise  I  'ale  keeps  it  up  with  him  best,"  said  Willoughby. 

"  She    docs    everything    besl  !       But  my   dinner-table   is 

involved,  and  I  cannot  count  ona  yocng  woman  to  talk  across 

it.     I  would  hire  a  lion  of  a  menagerie,  if  one  were  handy, 

rather  than  have  a  famous  scholar  at  my  table  unsupported 


61R  WILLODGHBY  RECEIVES  INSTRUCTION.  283 

by  another  famous  scholar.  Dr.  Middleton  would  ride  down 
a  duke  when  the  wine  is  in  him.  He  will  terrify  my  poor 
flock.  The  truth  in,  we  can't  leaven  him:  I  foresee  undi- 
gested lumps  of  conversation,  unless  you  devote  yourself." 

"I  will  devote  myself,"  said  Willoughby. 

"  I  can  calculate  on  Colonel  De  Craye  and  our  porcelain 
beauty  for  any  quantity  of  sparkles,  if  you  promise  that. 
They  play  well  together.  You  are  not  to  be  one  of  the  Gods 
to-night,  but  a  kind  of  Jupiter's  cupbearer ; — Juno's,  if  you 
like :  and  Lady  Busshe  and  Lady  Culmer,  and  all  your 
admirers  shall  know  subsequently  what  you  have  done. 
You  see  my  alarm.  I  certainly  did  not  rank  Professor 
Crooklyn  among  the  possibly  faithless,  or  I  never  would 
have  ventured  on  Dr.  Middleton  at  my  table.  My  dinner, 
parties  have  hitherto  been  all  successes.  Naturally  I  feel 
the  greater  anxiety  about  this  one.  For  a  single  failure  is 
all  the  more  conspicuous.  The  exception  is  everlastingly 
cited  !  It  is  not  so  much  what  people  say,  but  my  own 
sentiments.  I  hate  to  fail.  However,  if  you  are  true  we 
may  do." 

"  Whenever  the  great  gun  goes  off  I  will  fall  on  my  face, 
madam !" 

"  Something  of  that  sort,"  said  the  dame  smiling,  and 
leaving  him  to  reflect  on  the  egoism  of  women.  For  the 
sake  of  her  dinner-pai'ty  he"  was  to  be  a  cipher  in  attendance 
on  Dr.  Middleton,  and  Clara  and  De  Craye  were  to  be 
encouraged  in  sparkling  together  !  And  it  happened  that 
he  particularly  wished  to  shine.  The  admiration  of  his 
county  made  him  believe  he  had  a  flavour  in  general  society 
that  was  not  yet  distinguished  by  his  bride,  and  he  was  to 
relinquish  his  opportunity  in  order  to  please  Mrs.  Mount- 
stuart !  Had  she  been  in  the  pay  of  his  rival  she  could  not 
have  stipulated  for  more. 

He  was  anything  but  obtuse  :  he  remembered  young  Cross- 
jay's  instant  quietude,  after  struggling  in  his  grasp,  when 
Clara  laid  her  hand  on  the  boy  :  and  from  that  infinitesimal 
circumstance  he  deduced  the  boy's  perception  of  a  differing 
between  himself  and  his  bride,  and  a  transfer  of  Crossjay's 
allegiance  from  him  to  her.  fShe  shone  ;  she  had  the  gift  of 
female  beauty  ;  the  boy  was  attracted  to  it.  That  boy  must 
be  made  to  feel  his  treason.  But  the  point  of  the  cogitation 
was,  that   similarly  were  Clara  to  see  her  affianced  shining 


U84  THE  EGOIST. 

-liine  he  could  when  lit  up  by  admirers,  there  was  Vne 
probability  that  the  sensation  of  her  littleness  would  animate 
her  to  take  aim  at  him  once  more.  And  then  was  the  time 
for  her  chastisement. 

A  visit  to  Dr.  Middleton  in  the  library  satisfied  him  that 
she  had  not  been  renewing  her  entreaties  to  leave  Patterne. 
No,  the  miserable  coquette  had  now  her  pastime  and  was 
content  to  star.  Deceit  was  in  the  air:  he  heard  the  sound 
of  the  shuttle  of  deceit  without  seeing  it ;  but  on  the  whole, 
mindful  of  what  he  had  dreaded  during  the  hour3  of  her 
absence,  he  was  rather  flattered,  witheringly  flattered. 
"What  was  it  that  he  had  dreaded  ?  Nothing  less  than  news 
of  her  running  away.  Indeed  a  silly  fancy,  a  lover's  fancy  ! 
yet  it  had  led  him  so  far  as  to  suspect,  after  parting  with 
De  Craye  in  the  rain,  that  his  friend  and  his  bride  were  in 
collusion,  and  that  he  should  not  see  them  again.  He  had 
actually  shouted  on  the  rainy  road  the  theatric  call  "Fooled!" 
one  of  the  stacje-cries  which  are  cries  of  nature!  particularly 
the  cry  of  nature  with  men  who  have  driven  other  men  to 
the  cry.  Constantia  Durham  had  taught  him  to  believe 
women  capable  of  explosions  of  treason  at  half  a  minute's 
notice.  Ami  strangely,  to  prove  that  women  are  all  of  a 
be  had  worn  exactly  the  same  placidity  of  counte- 
nance just  before  she  fled,  as  Clara  yesterday  and  to-day; 
no  nervousness,  no  flushes,  no  twitches  of  the  brows,  but 
smoothness,  ease  of  manner — an  elegant  sisterliness,  one 
might  almost  say :  as  if  the  creature  had  found  a  midway 
ami  border-line  to  walk  on  between  cruelty  and  kindness, 
and  between  repulsion  and  attraction;  so  that  up  to  the 
_o  of  her  breath  she  did  forcefully  attract,  repelling  at 
foot's  length  with  her  armour  of  chill  serenity.  Not 
with  any  disdain,  with  no  passion:  such  a  line  as  she  her- 
pursued  she  indicated  to  him  on  a  neighbouring  parallel, 
passion  in  her  was  like  a  place  of  waves  evaporated  to 
a  crust  of  salt.  Clara's  resemblance  to  Constantia  in  this 
in-1.;nce  was  ominous.  For  him  whose  tragic  privilege  it 
had  be<  a  to  fold  each  of  them  in  his  arms,  and  weigh  on 
their  eyelids,  and  see  the  dissolving  mist-deeps  in  their  eyes, 
it  was  horrible.  Once  more  the  comparison  overcame  him. 
itia  he  could  condemn  for  revealing  too  much  to  his 
manly  sight  :  she  had  met  him  almost  half  way  :  well,  that 
was  complimentary  and  sanguine  :    bul    her  frankness  was  a 


SIR  WILLOUGHBY  RECEIVES  INSTRUCTION.  285 

baldness  often  rendering  it  doubtful  which  of  the  two,  lady 
or  gentleman,  was  the  object  of  the  chase — an  extreme 
perplexity  to  his  manly  soul.  Now  Clara's  inner  spirit  was 
shyer,  shy  as  a  doe  down  those  rose-tinged  abysses  ;  she 
allured  both  the  lover  and  the  hunter ;  forests  of  heaven- 
liness  were  in  her  flitting  eyes.  Here  the  difference  of  these 
fair  women  made  his  present  fate  an  intolerable  anguish. 
For  if  Constantia  was  like  certain  of  the  ladies  whom  he 
had  rendered  unhappy,  triumphed  over,  as  it  is  queerly 
called,  Clara  was  not.  Her  individuality  as  a  woman  was  a 
thing  he  had  to  bow  to.  It  was  impossible  to  roll  her  up  in 
the  sex  and  bestow  a  kick  on  the  travelling  bundle.  Hence 
he  loved  her,  though  she  hurt  him.  Hence  his  wretched- 
ness, and  but  for  the  hearty  sincerity  of  his  faith  in  the  Self 
he  loved  likewise  and  more,  he  would  have  been  hangdog 
abject. 

As  for  De  Craye,  Willoughby  recollected  his  own  exploits 
too  proudly  to  put  his  trust  in  a  man.  That  fatal  conjunc- 
tion of  temper  and  policy  had  utterly  thrown  him  off  his 
guard,  or  he  would  not  have  trusted  the  fellow  even  in  the 
first  hour  of  his  acquaintance  with  Clara.  But  he  had 
wished  her  to  be  amused  while  he  wove  his  plans  to  retain 
her  at  the  Hall : — partly  imagining  that  she  would  weary  of 
his  neglect :  vile  delusion !  In  truth  he  should  have  given 
festivities,  he  should  have  been  the  sun  of  a  circle,  and  have 
revealed  himself  to  her  in  his  more  dazzling  form.  He  went 
near  to  calling  himself  foolish  after  the  tremendous  reverbe- 
ration of  "  Fooled  !"  had  ceased  to  shake  him. 

How  behave  ?  It  slapped  the  poor  gentleman's  pride  in 
the  face  to  ask.  A  private  talk  with  her  would  rouse  her  to 
renew  her  supplications.  He  saw  them  flickering  behind  the 
girl's  transparent  calmness.  That  calmness  really  drew  its 
dead  ivory  hue  from  the  suppression  of  them  :  something  as 
much  he  guessed  ;  and  he  was  not  sure  either  of  his  temper 
or  his  policy  if  he  should  hear  her  repeat  her  profane 
request. 

An  impulse  to  address  himself  to  Vernon  and  discourse 
with  him  jocularly  on  the  childish  whim  of  a  young  lady, 
moved  perhaps  by  some  whiff  of  jealousy,  to  shun  the  yoke, 
was  checked.  He  had  always  taken  so  superior  a  pose  with 
Vernon  that  he  could  not  abandon  it  for  a  moment :  on  such 
a  subject  too !     Besides  Vernon  was  one  of  your  men  who 


286  TriE  egoist. 

entertain  the  ideas  abont  women  of  fellows  tli at  have  neve? 
conquered  one:  or  only  one,  we  will  say  in  his  case,  knowing 
his  secret  history;  and  that  one  no  flag  to  boast  of.  Densely 
ignorant  of  the  sex,  his  nincompoopish  idealizations,  at  other 
times  preposterous,  would  now  be  annoying.  He  would  pro- 
bably  presume  on  Clara's  inconceivable  lapse  of  dignity  to 
read  Ids  master  a  lecture:  he  was  <|uite  equal  to  a  philippic 

i  umiiiiii's  rights.  This  man  had  not  been  afraid  to  say 
that  he  talked  common  sense  to  women.  He  was  an  example 
of  the  consequence ! 

Another  result  was,  that  Vernon  did  not  talk  sense  to 
men.  Willoughby's  wrath  at  Clara's  exposure  of  him  to  his 
cousin  dismissed  the  proposal  of  a  colloquy  so  likely  to  sting 
his  temper,  and  so  certain  to  diminish  his  loftiness.  Un- 
willing to  speak  to  anybody,  he  was  isolated,  yet  consciously 

it  by  the  mysterious  action  going  on  all  over  the  house, 
from  Clara  and  De  Craye  to  Loatitia  and  young  Crossjay, 
down  to  Barclay  the  maid.  Anything  but  obtuse,  as  it  has 
been  observed,  Ids  blind  sensitiveness  felt  as  we  may  suppose 
a  Bpider  to  Feel  when  plucked  from  his  own  web  and  set  in 
the  centre  of  another's.  Lsetitia  looked  her  share  in  the 
:  tery.  A  burden  was  on  her  eyelashes.  How  she  could 
have  come  to  any  suspicion  of  the  circumstances,  he  was 
unable  to  imagine.  Her  intense  personal  sympathy,  it  might 
be:  he  thought  so  with  some  gentle  pity  for  her — of  the 
:  rnal  pat-back  order  of  pity.  She  adored  him,  by  decree 
of  Venus;  and  the  Goddess  hail  not  decreed  that  he  should 
t'.iid  consolation  in  adoring  her.  Nor  could  the  temptings  of 
prudent  counsel  in  his  head  induce  him  to  run  the  risk  of 
Buch  b  total  turnover  as  the  incurring  of  Laetitia's  pity  of 
himself  by  confiding  in  her.  He  checked  that  impulse  also, 
and   more   sovereignly.      For   him  to  be   pitied  by  Lsetitia 

ied  an  upsetting  of  the  scheme  of  Providence.     Provi- 
dence, ol  herw  ise  t  he  discriminating  dispensal  ion  of  the  good 
of  life,  had   made  him  the  beacon,  her  the  bird  :  she 

really  the  last  person  to  whom  he  could  unbosom.  The 
idea  of  his  being  in  a  position  that  suggested  his  doing  so, 
thrilled  him  with  I  rage;    and    it  appalled  him.      There 

appeared  to  be  another  Power.  The  same  which  had  humi- 
liated him  once  was  menacing  him  anew.  For  it  could  not 
be  Providi  nee.  whose  favourite  he  had  ever  been.  We  must 
have  a  couple  of    Powers   to   account    for  discomfort    when 


SIR  WTLLOUGHBY  RECEIVES  INSTRUCTION.  287 

Egoism  is  the  kernel  of  onr  religion.  Benevolence  had 
singled  him  for  uncommon  benefits  :  malignancy  was  at  work 
to  rob  him  of  them.  And  you  think  well  of  the  world,  do 
you ! 

Of  necessity  he  associated  Clara  with  the  darker  Power 
pointing  the  knife  at  the  quick  of  his  pride.  Still,  he  would 
have  raised  her  weeping :  he  would  have  stanched  her  wounds 
bleeding:  he  had  an  infinite  thirst  for  her  misery,  that  he 
might  ease  his  heart  of  its  charitable  love.  Or  let  her  commit 
herself,  and  be  cast  off !  Only  she  must  commit  herself 
glaringly,  and  be  cast  off  by  the  world  as  well.  Contem- 
plating her  in  the  form  of  a  discarded  weed,  he  had  a  catch 
of  the  breath :  she  was  fair.  He  implored  his  Power  that 
Horace  De  Craye  might  not  be  the  man !  Why  any  man  ? 
An  illness,  fever,  fire,  runaway  horses,  personal  disfigure- 
ment, a  laming,  were  sufficient.  And  then  a  formal  and 
noble  offer  on  his  part  to  keep  to  the  engagement  with  the 
unhappy  wreck  :  yes,  and  to  lead  the  limping  thing  to  the 
altar,  if  she  insisted.  His  imagination  conceived  it,  and  the 
world's  applause  besides. 

Nausea,  together  with  a  sense  of  duty  to  his  line,  extin- 
guished that  loathsome  prospect  of  a  mate,  though  without 
obscuring  his  chivalrous  devotion  to  his  g'entleman's  word 
of  honour,  which  remained  in  his  mind  to  comjiliment  him 
permanently. 

On  the  wThole,  he  could  reasonably  hope  to  subdue  her  to 
admiration.  He  drank  a  glass  of  champagne  at  his  dressing; 
an  unaccustomed  act,  but,  as  he  remarked  casually  to  his 
man  Pollington,  for  whom  the  rest  of  the  bottle  was  left,  he 
had  taken  no  horse-exercise  that  day. 

Having  to  speak  to  Vernon  on  business,  he  went  to  the 
schoolroom,  where  he  discovered  Clara,  beautiful  in  full  even- 
ing attire,  with  her  arm  on  young  Crossjay's  shoulder,  and 
heard  that  the  hard  taskmaker  had  abjured  Mrs.  Mount- 
stuart's  party,  and  had  already  excused  himself,  intending 
to  keep  Crossjay  to  the  grindstone.  Willoughby  was  for  the 
boy,  as  usual,  and  more  sparklingly  than  usual.  Clara  looked 
at  him  in  some  surprise.  He  rallied  Vernon  with  great  zest, 
quite  silencing  him  when  he  said  :  "  I  bear  witness  that  the 
fellow  was  here  at  his  regular  hour  for  lessons,  and  were 
you  ?"  He  laid  his  hand  on  Crossjay,  touching  Clara's  hand. 
You  will  remember  what  I  told  you,  Crossja}-,"  said  she, 


Tin:  i  GOI£  ' . 

rising  from  the  seat  gracefully  to  escape  the  touch.     "It  13 
my  command." 

Cr  Erowned  and  puffed. 

"  Bui  (inly  if  I'm  questioned,"  he  said. 

"Certainly,"  she  replied. 

"Then  I  question  the  rascal,"  said  Willoughby,  causing  a 
start.  "  What,  sir,  is  your  opinion  of  Miss  Middleton  in  her 
i'"! f  state  this  evening  F" 

"  Now,  the  truth,  Crossjay  !"  Clara  held  up  a  finger;  and 
tin'  boy  could  see  she  was  playing  at  archness,  but  for  Wil- 
loughby it  was  earnest.  "The  truth  is  not  likely  to  offend 
yon  "i'  me  either,"  he  murmured  to  her. 

"  I  wish  him  never,  never,  on  any  excuse,  to  speak  anything 
•." 

"  I  always  did  think  her  a  Beauty,"  Crossjay  growled.  He 
hated  1  he  having  to  say  it. 

"There!"  exclaimed  Sir  YYilloughby,  and  bent  extending 
an  arm  to  her.  "You  have  not  suffered  from  the  truth,  my 
Clara!" 

J  [er  answer  was :  "I  was  thinking  how  he  might  suffer  if 
he  were  taught  to  tell  the  reverse." 

"Oh!   for  a  fair  lady!" 

"Thai  is  the  worst  of  teaching,  Willoughby." 
'We'll  leave  it  to  the  fellow's  instinct  ;   he  has  our  blood 
in  him.     I  could  convince  you,  though,  if  I  might  cite  circum- 
stances.   Yea  !     But  yes  !     And  yes  again!     The  entire  truth 
cannot  invariably  be  told.     I  venture  to  say  it  should  not." 

•'  You  would  pardon  it  for  the  'fair  lady'  ?" 

"  Applaud,  my  love." 

He  squeezed  the  hand  within  his  arm,  contemplating  her. 

She  v>a>  arrayed  in  a  voluminous  robe  of  pale  blue  silk 

vapourous  with   trimmings  of   light  gauze  of  the  same  hue, 

o\-   Chambery,  matching  her   lair  hair  and  clear  skin 

the  complete  overthrow  of  less  inflammable  men  than 

Willoughby. 

"CI   pa  !"  Bighed  he. 

1,  it  would  really  be  generous,"  she  said,  "  though  the 
v     •  1 1  i t  1  ljt  is  had." 

"1  I  can  1  i-ous." 

"  Do  we  ever  know  ?" 

He  turned  his  head  to  A'emon,  issuing  brief  succinct  in- 
structions   for   letters  to  be  written,  and  drew  her  into  the 


SIR  WILLOUGHBY  RECEIVES  INSTRUCTION.  289 

ball,  saying  :  "  Know  ?  There  are  people  who  do  not  know 
themselves,  and  as  they  are  the  majority  they  manufacture 
the  axioms.  And  it  is  assumed  that  we  have  to  swallow 
them.  I  may  observe  that  I  think  I  know.  I  decline  to  be 
engulphed  in  those  majorities.  'Among  them,  but  not  of 
them.'     I  know  this,  that  my  aim  in  life  is  to  be  generous." 

"  Is  it  not  an  impulse  or  disposition  rather  than  an  aim  ?" 

"  So  much  1  know,"  pursued  Willoughby,  refusing  to  be 
tripped.  But  she  rang  discordantly  in  his  ear.  His  '  fancy 
that  he  could  be  generous,'  and  his  '  aim  at  being  generous,' 
had  met  with  no  response.  "I  have  given  proofs,"  he  said 
briefly,  to  drop  a  subject  upon  which  he  was  not  permitted 
to  dilate  ;  and  he  murmured  :  "  People  acquainted  with  me  ! 
.  .  .  ."  She  was  asked  if  she  expected  him  to  boast  of 
generous  deeds.  "From  childhood!"  she  heard  him  mutter; 
and  she  said  to  herself:  'Release  me,  and  you  shall  be  every- 
thing !" 

The  unhappy  gentleman  ached  as  he  talked  :  for  with  men 
and  with  hosts  of  women  to  whom  he  was  indifferent,  never 
did  he  converse  in  this  shambling,  third-rate,  sheepish  manner, 
devoid  of  all  highness  of  tone  and  the  proper  precision  of  an 
authority.  He  was  unable  to  fathom  the  cause  of  it,  but 
Clara  imposed  it  on  him,  and  only  in  anger  could  he  throw 
it  off.  The  temptation  to  an  outburst  that  would  flatter  him 
with  the  sound  of  his  authoritative  voice  had  to  be  resisted 
on  a  night  when  he  must  be  composed  if  he  intended  to  shine, 
so  he  merely  mentioned  Lady  Busshe's  present,  to  gratify 
spleen  by  preparing  the  ground  for  dissension,  and  prudently 
acquiesced  in  her  anticipated  slipperiness.  She  would  rather 
not  look  at  it  now,  she  said. 

"  Not  now  :  very  well,"  said  he. 

His  immediate  deference  made  her  regretful.  "  There  is 
hardly  time,  Willoughby." 

"  My  dear,  we  shall  have  to  express  our  thanks  to  her." 

"  I  cannot." 

His  arm  contracted  sharply.     He  was  obliged  to  be  silent. 

Dr.  Middleton,  La?titia  and  the  ladies  Eleanor  and  Isabel 
joining  them  in  the  hall  found  twTo  figures  linked  together 
in  a  shadowy  indication  of  halves  that  have  fallen  apart  and 
hang  on  the  last  thread  of  junction.  Willoughby  retained 
her  hand  on  his  arm ;  he  held  to  it  as  the  symbol  of  their 
alliance,  and  oppressed  the  gii-l's  nerves  by  contact  with  a 

u 


2'<0  Till:  RGOrST. 

frame  labouring  for  breath.  De  I  Iraye  looked  on  them  from 
overhead.  The  carriages  were  at  the  door,  and  Willoughby 
.said:  "Where's  Horace?  I  suppose  he's  taking  a  final  shot 
at  his  I;. ml;  of  Anecdotes  and  in  at  collection  of  Irishisms." 

"No,"  replied  the  colonel,  descending,  "That's  a  spring 
works  of  itself  and  has  discovered  the  secret  of  continuous 
motion,  mote's  the  pity  ! — unless  you'll  be  pleased  to  make 
f  use  to  Science." 

He  gave  a  laugh  of  good  humour. 

••  Your   laughter,  Horace,  is  a  capital  comment  on  youi 

wit. 

Willonghby  said  it  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  nicked  a 
whip. 

'•  Tis  a  genial  advertisement  of  a  vacancy,"  said  De  Craye. 

"Precisely:  three  parts  auctioneer  to  one  for  the  pro- 
perty." 

"  (  Mi  !  if  you  have  a  musical  qnack,  score  it  a  point  in  his 
favour.  Willoughby,  though  you  don't  swallow  his  drug." 

"  If  he  means  to  be  musical,  let  him  keep  time." 

'•  Am  I  late  : "  said  De  Craye  to  the  la  lies,  proving  him- 
self an  adept  in  the  art  of  being  gracefully  vanquished  and 
so  \\  inning  tender  hearts. 

Willoughby  had  refreshed  himself.  At  the  back  of  his 
mind  there  was  a  suspicion  that  his  adversary  would  not 
e  yielded  so  fiatly  without  an  assurance  of  practically 
triumphing,  secretly  getting  the  better  of  him  ;  and  it  filled 
him  with  venom  for  a  further  bout  at  the  next  opportunity  : 
but  as  lie  had  been  sarcastic  and  mordant,  he  had  shown 
Clara  what  he  could  do  in  a  way  of  speaking  different  from 
the  lamentable  cooing  stuff,  gasps  and  feeble  protestations 
to  which,  he  knew  not,  how,  she  reduced  him.  Sharing  the 
opinion  of  his  race,  that  blunt  personalities,  or  the  pugilistic 
form,  administered  directly  on  the  salient  features,  are 
exhibitions  of  mastery  in  Buch  encounters,  he  felt  strong  and 
I,  eager  for  the  successes  of  the  evening.  De  Craye  was 
'"    ,1"'    firs!    can-;  |    to  the   ladies    Eleanor  and 

iel.  Willoughby,  with  Clara,  Laetitia  and  Dr.  Middleton 
followed,  all  silent,  tor  the  Rev.  doctor  was  ostensibly  pon- 
dering; and  Willoughby  was  damped  a  little  when  he 
unlocked  hi-  moul h  I 

"  And  yet  I  have  noi  observed  that  Colonel  De  Craye  is 
anything  0f   a  Celtiberian  lyirnatius  meriting  (instigation  for 


SIR  WILLODGHBY  RECEIVES  INSTRUCTION.  291 

an  untiutly  display  of  well-whitened  teeth,  sir :  '  quicquid 
est,  ubicunque  est,  quodcunque  agit,  renidet :' — ha  ?  a  mor- 
bus neither  charming"  nor  urbane  to  the  general  eye,  how- 
ever consolatory  to  the  actor.  But  this  gentleman  does  not 
offend  so,  or  1  am  so  strangely  prepossessed  in  his  favour  as 
to  be  an  incompetent  witness." 

Dr.  Middleton's  persistent  ha  ?  eh  ?  upon  an  honest 
frown  of  inquiry  plucked  an  answer  out  of  Willoughby  that 
was  meant  to  be  humourously  scornful  and  soon  became 
apologetic  under  the  doctor's  interrogatively  grasping 
gaze. 

"  These  Irishmen,"  Willoughby  said,  "  will  play  the  pro- 
fessional jester,  as  if  it  were  an  office  they  were  born  to. 
We  must  play  critic  now  and  then,  otherwise  we  should 
have  them  deluging  us  with  their  Joe  Millerisms." 

"  With  their  O'Millerisms  you  would  say,  perhaps  ?" 

Willoughby  did  his  duty  to  the  joke,  but  the  Rev.  doctor, 
though  he  wore  the  paternal  smile  of  a  man  that  has 
begotten  hilarity,  was  not  perfectly  propitiated,  and  pur- 
sued :  "Nor  to  my  apprehension  is  'the  man's  laugh  the 
comment  on  his  wit '  unchallengeably  new :  instances  of 
cousinship  germane  to  the  phrase  will  recur  to  you.  But  it 
has  to  be  noted  that  it  was  a  phrase  of  assault ;  it  was 
ostentatiously  battery :  and  I  would  venture  to  remind  you, 
friend,  that  among  the  elect,  considering  tha^  it  is  as  fatally 
facile  to  spring  the  laugh  upon  a  man  as  to  deprive  him  of 
his  life,  considering  that  we  have  only  to  condescend  to  the 
weapon,  and  that  the  more  popular  necessarily  the  more 
murderous  that  weapon  is, — among  the  elect,  to  which  it  is 
your  distinction  to  aspire  to  belong,  the  rule  holds  to  abstain 
from  any  employment  of  the  obvious,  the  percoct,  and  like- 
wise, for  your  own  sake,  from  the  epitonic,  the  overstrained ; 
for  if  the  former,  by  readily  assimilating  with  the  under- 
standings of  your  audience  are  empowered  to  commit  assas- 
sination on  your  victim,  the  latter  come  under  the  charge  of 
unseemliness,  inasmuch  as  they  are  a  description  of  public 
suicide.  Assuming,  then,  manslaughter  to  be  your  pastime, 
and  hari-kari  not  to  be  your  bent,  the  phrase,  to  escape 
criminality,  must  rise  in  you  as  you  would  have  it  to  fall  on 
him,  ex  improviso.     Am  I  right  ?" 

"I  am  in  the  habit  of  thinking  it  impossible,  sir,  that  you 
can  be  in  error,"  said  Willoughby. 

c  2 


*.  %J  _f 


Till:   !  001    r. 


Dr.  Middlcton  left  it  the  more  emphatic  by  saying  nothing 

ber. 

Both  his  daughter  and   Miss  Dale,  who  had  disapproved 

waspish  snap  at  Colour!   !»-•  Crave,  were  in  wonderment 

he  an    of  Bpeech   which  could    so   soothingly  inform   a 

[email  thai  his  behaviour  had  uo1  been  gentlemanly. 

Willoughby  was  damped  by  what  he  comprehended  of  it 

a  few  minutes.     In  proportion  ;is  he  realized  an  evening 

with  his  ancienl  admirers  he  was  restored,  and  he  began  bo 

marvel  greatly  at  his  folly  in  nol  giving  banquets  and  Balls, 

instead  of  making  a  solitude  about   himself  and  his  bride. 

For  solitude,  thought  he,  is  •_ 1  for  the  man,  the  man  being 

a  creature  consumed  by  passion;  woman's  love,  on  the  con- 
trary, will  only  be  nourished  by  the  reflex  light  she  catches 
of  yon  in  the  eyes  of  others,  she  having  no  passion  of  her 
own.  lmt  simply  an  instinct  driving  her  to  attach  herself  to 
what  pis  most  largely  admired,  most  shining.    So  think- 

he  determined  to  change  his  course  of  conduct,  and  he 
was  happier.  In  the  firs!  gush  of  our  wisdom  drawn  directly 
from  experience  there  is  a  mental  intoxication  that  cancels 

th I  world  and  establishes  a  new  one,  not  allowing  us  to 

u hether  it  is  too  late. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

TREATING  OP  Till    I  -PARTI  AT  MRS.  MOUNTSTUART 

j  i:  n  k  r 

V  ay   had   tolerably  steady  work 

ther  !  hours,  varied  by  the  arrival  of  a 

plate  ol  "ii  a  tray  for  the  master,  and  some  interroga- 

tions put  to  him  from  time  to  time  by  the  boy  in  refer. 

Idleton.     i  ■    made  the  discovery  that   if  he 

abst  rom  alluding  to  M  iss  M  iddleton's  beauty  he  might 

water  his   dusty   path  with   her  name  nearly  as   much  as  he 
liked.     M  ention  of  hei  ty  incurred  a  reprimand.     On  the 

Brst  (  was  wistful.     "Isn't  she  glorious !" 

1  ed   he   had    started    a   sovereign    receipt    for 


MRS.  MOUNTSTUARTS  DINNER-PARTY.  293 

blessed  deviations.  He  tried  it  again,  but  paedagogue-thunder 
broke  over  his  bead. 

"  Yes,  only  I  can't  understand  what  she  means,  Mr.  Whil- 
ford,"  he  excused  himself.  "  First  I  was  not  to  tell ;  I  know 
I  wasn't,  because  she  said  so  ;  she  quite  as  good  as  said  so. 
Her  last  words  were,  '  Mind,  Crossjay,  you  know  nothing 
about  me,'  when  I  stuck  to  that  beast  of  a  tramp,  who's  a 
'  walking  moral,'  and  gets  money  out  of  people  by  snuffling 
it." 

"  Attend  to  your  lesson,  or  you'll  be  one,"  said  Vernon. 

"  Yes,  but,  Mr.  Whitford,  now  I  am  to  tell.  I'm  to 
answer  straight  out  to  every  question." 

"  Miss  Middleton  is  anxious  that  you  should  be  truthful." 

"  Yes,  but  in  the  morning  she  told  me  not  to  tell." 

"  She  was  in  a  hurry.  She  has  it  on  her  conscience  tbat 
you  may  have  misunderstood  her,  and  she  wishes  you  never 
to  be  guilty  of  an  untruth,  least  of  all  on  her  account." 

Crossjay  committed  an  unspoken  resolution  to  the  air  in  a 
violent  sigh  :  "  Ah  !"  and  said  :  "  If  I  were  sure  !" 

"  Do  as  she  bids  you,  my  boy." 

"  But  I  don't  know  what  it  is  she  wants." 

"  Hold  to  her  last  words  to  you." 

"  So  I  do.  If  she  told  me  to  run  till  I  dropped,  on  I'd 
go. 

"  She  told  you  to  study  your  lessons  :  do  tbat." 

Crossjay  buckled  to  his  book,  invigorated  by  an  imagina- 
tion of  his  liege  lady  on  the  page. 

After  a  studious  interval,  until  the  impression  of  his  lady 
had  subsided,  he  resumed:  "She's  so  funny!  She's  just- 
like  a  girl,  and  then  she's  a  lady  too.  She's  my  idea  of 
a  princess.  And  Colonel  De  Craye!  Wasn't  he  taught 
dancing!  When  he  says  something  funny  he  ducks  and 
seems  to  be  setting  to  his  partner.  I  should  like  to  be  as 
clever  as  her  father.  That  is  a  clever  man !  I  daresay 
Colonel  De  Craye  will  dance  with  her  to-night.  I  wish  I 
was  there." 

"  It's  a  dinner-party,  not  a  dance,"  Vernon  forced  himself 
to  say,  to  dispel  that  ugly  vision. 

"  Isn't  it,  sir  ?    I  thought  they  danced  after  dinner-partiea 
Mr.  Whitford,  have  you  ever  seen  her  run  ?" 
Vernon  pointed  him  to  his  task. 
They  were  silent  for  a  lengthened  period. 


294  THE    RGOTST. 

■•  But  does  Miss  Middleton  mean   mc  to  speak  out  if  Sir 
Willonghby  asks  me?"  Baid  Crossjay. 

••  Certainly.     You  needn't  make  much  of  it.     All's  plain 

and  simpl( 

••  Bui  I'm  positive,  Mr.  Whitford,  lie  wasn  t  to  hear  of  her 
going  to  the  post-office  with  me  before  breakfast.  And  how 
did  Colonel  De  Craye  find  her  and  bring  her  back,  with  that 
old  Flitch  P  He's  a  man  and  can  go  where  he  pleases,  and 
IM  bavefound  her  too,  give  me  the  chance.  You  know,  I'm 
fond  of  Miss  Dale,  but  she— I'm  very  fond  of  her— but  you 
can't  think  she's  a  girl  as  well.  And  about  .Miss  Dale,  when 
a  a  a  thing,  there  it  is,  clear.  But  Miss  Middleton  lias 
a  lot  of  meanings.  Nevermind;  I  go  by  what's  inside  and 
I'm  pretty  sure  to  please  her." 

•■  Take  your  chin  off  your  hand  and  your  elbow  off  the  book, 

and  fix  yourself,"  said  Vernon,  wrestling  with  the  seduction 

3jay's  idolatry,  for  Miss  Middleton's  appearance  had 

[■naturally  sweet  on  her  departure,  and  the  next 

pleasure  to  seeing  her  was  hearing  of  her  from  the  lips  of 

this  passionate  young  poet. 

•'  Remember  that  you  please  her  by  speaking  truth," 
Vernon  added,  and  laid  himself  open  to  questions  npon  the 
truth,  by  which  he  learnt,  with  a  perplexed  sense  of  envy 
and  sympathy,  that  the  hoy's  idea  of  truth  strongly  approxi- 
i  .1  to  his  conception  of  what  should  be  agreeable  to  Miss 
,M  i  Idleton. 

Be  was  Lonely,  bereft  of  the  bard,  when  he  had  tucked 
I  ,.  up  in   his    bed   and  left  him.     Books  he  could  not 

i  ;  thoughts  were  disturbii  g.  A  seat  in  the  library  and 
a  stupid  stare  helped  to  pass  the  hours,  and  but  for  the  spot 
of  sadness  moving  meditation  in  spite  of  his  effort  to  stun 
himself,  he  would  have  borne  a  happy  resemblance  to  an 
idiot  in  the  sun.  He  had  verily  no  command  of  his  reason. 
She  was  too  beautiful!  Whatever  she  did  was  best.  That 
was  the  refrain  of  the  fountain-song  in  him;  the  burden 
being   her    whims,    variations,    inconsistencies,    wiles;    her 

good  and  naughty,  that  might  be 
iped  to  noble  or  to  terrible;  her  sincereness,  her  dupli- 
city, her  courage,  cowardice,  possibilities  for  heroism  and 
for  treachery.  By  dint  of  dwelling  on  the  theme,  he  magni- 
fied the  young  lady  t<>  extraordinary  stature.  And  lie  had 
sense  enough  to  own  that  hei  character  was  yet  liquid  in  the 


MRS.  MOUNTSTUART' S  DINNER-PARTY.  2y5 

mould,  and  that  she  was  a  creature  of  only  naturally  youthful 
wildness  provoked  to  freakishness  by  the  ordeal  of  a  situa- 
tion shrewd  as  any  that  can  happen  to  her  sex  in  civilized 
life.  But  he  was  compelled  to  think  of  her  extravagantly, 
and  he  leaned  a  little  to  the  descrediting  of  her,  because  her 
actual  image  unmanned  him  and  was  unbearable:  and  to 
say  at  the  end  of  it  'She  is  too  beautiful !  whatever  she 
does  is  best,'  smoothed  away  the  wrong  he  did  her.  Had  it 
been  in  his  power  he  would  have  thought  of  her  in  the 
abstract — the  stage  contiguous  to  that  which  he  adopted  : 
but  the  attempt  was  luckless ;  the  Stagyrite  would  have 
failed  in  it.  What  philosopher  could  have  set  down  that 
face  of  sun  and  breeze  and  nymph  in  shadow  as  a  point  in  a 
problem  ? 

The  library-door  was  opened  at  midnight  by  Miss  Dale. 
She  closed  it  quietly.  "  You  are  not  working,  Mr.  Whitford  ? 
I  fancied  you  would  wish  to  hear  of  the  evening.  Professor 
Crooklyn  arrived  after  all !  Mrs.  Mountstuart  is  bewildered : 
she  says  she  expected  you,  and  that  you  did  not  excuse  your- 
self to  her,  and  she  cannot  comprehend,  et  cetera.  That  is 
to  say,  she  chooses  bewilderment  to  indulge  in  the  exclama- 
tory. She  must  be  very  much  annoyed.  The  professor  did 
come  by  the  train  she  drove  to  meet !" 

"  I  thought  it  probable,"  said  Vernon. 

"  He  had  to  remain  a  couple  of  hours  at  the  Railway  Inn  . 
no  conveyance  was  to  be  found  for  him.  He  thinks  he  has 
caught  a  cold,  and  cannot  stifle  his  fretfulness  about  it.  He 
may  be  as  learned  as  Dr.  Middleton  ;  he  has  not  the  same 
happy  constitution.  Nothing  more  unfortunate  could  have 
occurred ;  he  spoilt  the  party.  Mrs.  Mountstuart  tried  petting 
him,  which  drew  attention  to  him  and  put  us  all  in  his  key 
for  several  awkward  minutes,  more  than  once.  She  lost  her 
head;  she  was  unlike  herself.  I  maybe  presumptuous  in 
criticizing  her,  but  should  not  the  president  of  a  dinner-table 
treat  it  like  a  battle-field,  and  let  the  guest  that  sinks  descend, 
and  not  allow  the  voice  of  a  discordant,  however  illustrious, 
to  rule  it  ?  Of  course,  it  is  when  I  see  failures  that  I  fancy 
I  could  manage  so  well :  comparison  is  prudently  reserved 
in  the  other  cases.  I  am  a  daring  critic,  no  doubt  because 
I  know  I  shall  never  be  tried  by  experiment.  I  have  no 
tjnbition  to  be  tried." 

She   did   not  notice   a   smile  of  Vernon's,  and  continued: 


'I  UK   EGOIST. 

'Mr  intstuarl  gave  him  the  lead  tipon  any  subject  he 

chose.  I  thought  the  professor  never  would  have  ceased 
talking  of  a  young  lady  who  had  been  at  the  inn  before  him 
drinking  hoi  brandy  and  water  with  a  gentleman!" 

'  How  did  he  hear  of  that  ?"  cried  Vernon,  roused  by  the 
malignity  of  the  Pates. 

"  Prom  the  la  ml  lady,  trying  to  comfort  him.     And  a  story 

of  her  lending  shoes  and  stockings  while  those  of  the  young 

lady  were  drying.     He  has  the  dreadful  snappish  humourous 

of  recounting  which  impresses  it;  the  table  took  up  the 

of  this  remarkable  young  lady,  and  whether  she  was 

:i  ladj  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  w  ho  she  could  be  that  went 

abroad  on  fool  in  heavy  rain.     It  was  painful  tome;  I  knew 

igh  to  be  sure  of  who  she  was." 

-  Did  Bhe  betray  it  r" 

-  No." 

"Did  Willoughby  look  at  Iter." 
"  Without  suspicion  then." 
"Then  P" 

one!    De   Craye  was  diverting  us,  and  he  was  very 

ising.      Mrs.    .Mountst uart  told  him  afterwards  that  he 

'  to  be  paid  Balvage  for  saving  the  wreck  of  her  party. 

Sir  Willoughby  was  a    little  too  cynical:    he  talked   well; 

what   he  said  was  good,  but  it  was  not  good-humoured:  he 

""T   the   i  -  indifference  of   Colonel  De  Crave  to 

ottering  nonsense  thai   amusemeni  may  come  of  it.     And  in 

the  drawing-room  he  losi  such  gaiety  as  he  had.     I  was  close 

Monntstuart  when   Professor  Crooklvn  approached 

in   my  hearing  of  that  gentleman  and  that 

young  lady.     The;  ou  could  see  by  his  nods,  Colonel 

De  i  raye  and  Miss  Middleton." 

'  once  mentioned  it  to  Willoughby!" 
"I  De  Craye  gave   her  no  chance,  if  she  sought  it. 

I  her  profusely.  Behind  his  rattle  he  must  have 
brains.  It  pan  in  all  directions  to  entertain  her  and  her 
circle.  ' 

Willoughby  knows  nothing?  " 

'"  '   cannol   judge.      He  stood   with   .Mrs.    Monntstuart  a 

minute  were  taking  leave.     She  looked  strange.     I 

1    her  say, 'The  rogue.'     He   laughed.     She  lifted  her 

snouldi  He    scarcely    opened    his   mouth   on    the   way 

home." 


MRS.  MOUNTSTUART'S  DINNER-PARTY.  297 

"Tho  thing  must  run  its  course,"  Vernon  said,  with  the 
philosophical  air  which  is  desperation  rendered  decorous. 
"  Willoughby  deserves  it.  A  man  of  full  growth  ought  to 
know  that  nothing  on  earth  tempts  Providence  so  much  as 
the  binding  of  a  young  woman  against  her  will.  Those  two 
are  mutually  attracted :  they're  both  ....  They  meet  and 
the  mischief's  done  :  both  are  bright.  He  can  persuade  with 
a  word.  Another  might  discourse  like  an  angel  and  it 
would  be  useless.  I  said  everything  I  could  think  of,  to  no 
purpose.  And  so  it  is :  there  are  those  attractions ! — just 
as,  with  her,  Willoughby  is  the  reverse,  he  repels.  I'm  in 
about  the  same  predicament — or  should  be  if  she  were 
plighted  to  me.  That  is,  for  the  length  of  Gve  minutes; 
about  the  space  of  time  I  should  require  for  the  formality  of 
handing  her  back  her  freedom.  How  a  sane  man  can 
imagine  a  girl  like  that  .  .  .  .  !  But  if  she  has  changed,  she 
has  changed !  You  can't  conciliate  a  withered  affection. 
This  detaining  her,  and  tricking,  and  not  listening,  only 
increases  her  aversion  ;  she  learns  the  art  in  turn.  Here 
she  is,  detained  by  fresh  plots  to  keep  Dr.  Middleton  at  the 
Hall.  That's  true,  is  it  not  ?  "  He  saw  that  it  was.  "  No, 
she's  not  to  blame  !  She  has  told  him  her  mind  ;  he  won't 
listen.  The  question  then  is,  whether  she  keeps  to  her 
word,  or  breaks  it.  It's  a  dispute  between  a  conventional 
idea  of  obligation  and  an  injury  to  her  nature.  Which  is 
the  more  dishonourable  thing  to  do  ?  Why,  you  and  I  see 
in  a  moment  that  her  feelings  guide  her  best.  It's  one  of  the 
few  cases  in  which  nature  may  be  consulted  like  an  oracle." 

"  Is  she  so  sure  of  her  nature  ?  "  said  Miss  Dale. 
'  You  may   doubt  it ;    I   do  not.     1   am   surprised  at  hei 
coming  back.     De  Craye  is  a  man  of  the  world,  and  advised 

it,    I    suppose.      He well,  I  never  had   the  persuasive 

tongue,  and  my  failing  doesn't  count  for  much." 

"  But  the  suddenness  of  the  intimacy  !  " 

"  The  disaster  is  rather  famous  '  at  first  sight.'  He  came 
in  a  fortunate  hour  ....  for  him.  A  pigmy's  a  giant  if  he 
can  manage  to  arrive  in  season.  Did  you  not  notice  that 
there  was  danger  at  their  second  or  third  glance  ?  You 
counselled  me  to  hang  on  here,  where  the  amount  of  good 
I  do  in  proportion  to  what  I  have  to  endure  is  micro- 
scopic." 

"  It   was   against   your  wishes,  I  know,"  said  La?titia,  aid 


TIIK  EGOIST. 

a  the  words  were  oui  Bhe  feared  that  fcney  were  tenta tire. 
Her  delicacy  shrank  from  even  seeming  to  sound  him  in 
relation  to  a  situation  so  delicate  as  .Miss  Middleton's. 

Th(  Bentiment  guarded  him  from  betraying  himself, 

and  ho  Baid  :  "  Partly  against.      We  both  foresaw  the  pos- 

ii8e,  like  mos<  prophets,  we  knew  a  little  more  of 

circumstances  enabling  as  to  see  the  fatal.     A  pigmy  would 

•ved,  but  De  Craye  is  a  handsome,  intelligent,  pleasant 

fellow." 

"Sir  Willoughby's  friend!"       ,   • 

"Well,  in  these  affairs !     A  great  deal  must  be  charged  on 
the  <  roddess." 

••  'I'ii. it  is  really  Pagan  fatalism  !  " 

"Our  modern  word  fori!  is  Nature.     Science  condescends 
3peak  <»t'  natural   selection.     Look  at  these!     They  are 
graceful   and   winning  and   witty,  bright  to  mind  and 
made  for  one  another,  as  country  people  say.     I  can't 
le  him.     Besides  we  don't  know  thai  he's  guilty.    We're 
quite   in  the  dark,  except   thai    we're  certain  how  it  must 
end.   If  the  chance  should  occur  to  you  of  giving  Willoughby 
■  id    of  counsel — it  may  -yon   might,  without  irritating 
him  as  my  knowledge  of  his   plighi    does,  hint  at  your  eyes 
£  open.     His  insane  dread  of  a  detective  world  makes 
him   artificially  blind.     As  Boon  as  he  fancies  himself  seen, 
;  to  work  spinning  a  web,  and  he  discerns  nothing  else. 

I        generally  a  clever  kind  of  web;  but  if  it's  a  tangle  to 
others  it's  the  same  to  him,  and  a  veil  as  well.     He  is  pre- 
ag  the  catastrophic,  he  forces  the  issue.     Tell  him  of  her 
e  to  depart.     Treat  her  as  mad,  to  soothe  him. 
Otherv  morning  he   will   wake  a  second  time  .  .  .  .! 

It    ia    perfectly    certain.      And   the  second   time    it    will    be 
rely  his  own  fault.     Inspire  him  with  some  philosophy.'' 
•■  I  ha  \  •■  Done." 

"If  I  tho  .  T  would  Bay  you  have  better.     There  are 

kinds   of   philosophy,  mine  and  yours.     Mine  conns  of 
devotion." 

"  He  is  unliki  1 ;.  to  cl -'■  me  for  his  confidante." 

Vernon  meditated.     '  One  can  never  quite  guess  what  he 

■will   do,  from  knowing  the  heal  of  the  centre  in  him 

which   precipitates   b  ;  he  has   a    great  art  of  con  - 

A-    to  me,   a  my   views  are  too 

philosophical   to  let   me   be  of  nse  to  any  of  them.     I  blame 


MRS.  MOUNTSTUART  S  DINNER-PARTY.  200 

only  the  one  who  holds  to  the  bond.  The  sooner  I  am  gone ! 
— In  fact,  I  cannot  stay  on.  So  Dr.  Middleton  and  the  pro- 
fessor did  not  strike  fire  together  ?  " 

"Dr.  Middleton  was  ready  and  pursued  him,  but  Pro- 
fessor Crooklyn  insisted  on  shivering.  His  line  of  blank 
verse  :  '  A  Railway  platform  and  a  Railway  inn !  '  became 
pathetic  in  repetition.     He  must  have  suffered'." 

"  Somebody  has  to  !  " 

"  Why  the  innocent  ?  " 

"  He  arrives  a  propos.  But  remember  that  Fridolin  some- 
times contrives  to  escape  and  have  the  guilty  scorched.  The 
professor  would  not  have  suffered  if  he  had  missed  his  train, 
as  he  appears  to  be  in  the  habit  of  doing.  Thus  his  un- 
accustomed good  fortune  was  the  cause  of  his  bad." 

"  You  saw  him  on  the  platform  ?  " 

"  I  am  unacquainted  with  the  professor.  I  had  to  get  Mrs. 
Mountstuart  out  of  the  way." 

"  She  says  she  described  him  to  you.  '  Complexion  of  a 
sweetbread,  consistency  of  a  quenelle,  grey,  and  like  a  saint 
without  his  dish  behind  the  head." 

"  Her  descriptions  are  strikingly  accurate,  but  she  forgot 
to  sketch  his  back,  and  all  that  1  saw  was  a  narrow  sloping 
back  and  a  broad  hat  resting  the  brim  on  it.  My  report  to 
her  spoke  of  an  old  gentleman  of  dark  complexion,  as  the 
only  traveller  on  the  platform  She  has  faith  in  the  efficiency 
of  her  descriptive  powers,  and  so  she  was  willing  to  drive  off 
immediately. — The  intention  was  a  start  to  London.  Colonel 
De  Craye  came  up  and  effected  in  five  minutes  what  I  could 
not  compass  in  thirty." 

"But  you  saw  Colonel  De  Craye  pass  you  ?■" 

"  My  work  was  done  ;  I  should  have  been  an  intruder. 
Besides  I  was  acting  wet  jacket  with  Mrs.  Mountstuart  to 
get  her  to  drive  off  fast,  or  she  might  have  jumped  out  in 
search  of  her  professor  herself." 

"  She  says  you  were  lean  as  a  fork,  with  the  wind 
whistling  through  the  prongs." 

'•  You  see  how  easy  it  is  to  deceive  one  who  is  an  artist  in 
phrases.  Avoid  them,  Miss  Dale  ;  they  dazzle  the  penetra- 
tion of  the  composer.  That  is  wThy  people  of  ability  like  Mrs. 
Mountstuart  see  so  little  ;  they  are  so  beut  on  describing 
brilliantly.  However,  she  is  kind  and  charitable  at  heart. 
i  have  been  considering  to-night  that,  to  cut  this  knot  as  it 


Tin:  ego:   r. 

-  Middleton  might  do  worse  than  speak  bI  raicrht  ont 

Mountstuart.     No  one  else  would  have  such  influence 

h  Willonghby.     The  simple  fad   of  M  3.  Mountstuart's 

knowing  oi  it  would  be  almost  e>nongh.     But  courage  would 

be  required  for  thi  id  night,  .Miss  Dale." 

I  night,  Mr.  Whitford.      You  pardon  me  for  disturb- 

uon  pressed   her   hand   reassuringly.     lie  had  but  to 
and  review  her  history  to  think  his  cousin  Wil- 
by  punished  by  jusl  retribution,     indeed  for  any  mal- 
treatment of  tin- dear  boy  Love  by  man  or  by  woman,  coming 
undei  your  cognizance,  you,  if  you  be  of  common  soundness, 
shall  behold  the  retributive  blow  struckin  your  time. 

Dale  retired  thinking  how  like  she  and  Vernon  were 

ne  another  in  the   toneless  condition  they  had  achie 

through  sorrow.     He  succeeded    in    masking    himself   from 

her.  on  ing  to  her  awe  of  the  circumstances.    SI,.,  reproached 

herself  for  not  having  the  same  devotion  to  the  cold   idea  of 

Int..  had  ;  and  though  it  provoked  inquiry,  she  would 

top  to  ask  why  he  had   left   Miss  M  iddleton  a  prey  to  the 

sparkling  colonel.     It  seemed  a  proof  of  the  philosophy  he 

iched. 

v~   -  -  passing  bv  young  Crossjay's  bedroom-door  a 

ice  appeared.   Sir  Willoughby  slowly  emerged  and  presented 
in  his  full  length,  beseeching  her  to  banish  alarm. 
He  said  it  in  a  hushed  voice,  wit  ha  face  qualified  to  create 
1  he  sentiment. 

■  Aie  yon  tired  P  Bleepy  ?  "  said  he. 

Sic  protested  that  she  was  not;  she  intended  to  read  for 
an  hour. 

Hebeggedtoha  hour  dedicated  to  him.     "I  shall 

he  relieved  by  con  j  with  a  friend." 

abterfuge  crossed  he-  mind;  she  thought  his  midnight 

\l:r  bed-Side  a   pretty   feature   in    him  ;    she    was 

full  of  pity  too  ;  si  ed   to  the  Btrange  request,  feeling 

become  '  an  old  woman  '  to  attach  import, 
public  discovery  of  midnight  interviews  involving 
I  feelii  t  hat  she  was  being  treated  as 

nd  in  the  form  of  a   very  old   woman.      Ber  mind 
ting  any  recurrence  t,,  the  project  she  had 

1  i"   the   ton-iie  of  innuendo,  of  which. 


SIR  WILLOUGHBY  ACHIEVES  PATHOS.  .      301 

because  of  her  repeated  tremblings  Tinder  it,  she  thought 
him  a  master. 

He  conducted  her  along  the  corridor  to  the  private  sitting, 
room  of  the  ladies  Eleanor  and  Isabel. 

"  Deceit  !  "  he  said,  while  lighting  the  candles  on  the 
mantel- piece. 

She  was  earnestly  compassionate,  and  a  word  that  could 
not  relate  to  her  personal  destinies  refreshed  her  by  dis- 
placing her  apprehensive  antagonism  and  giving  pity  free 
play. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

SIR  WILLGUGHBY  ATTEMPTS  AND  ACHIEVES  PATHOS. 

Both  were  seated.  Apparently  he  would  have  preferred 
to  watch  her  dark  downcast  eyelashes  in  silence  under  sanc- 
tion of  his  air  of  abstract  meditation  and  the  melancholy 
superinducing  it.  Blood-colour  was  in  her  cheeks ;  the 
party  had  inspirited  her  features.  Might  it  be  that  lively 
company,  an  absence  of  economical  solicitudes  and  a  flourish 
ing  home  were  all  she  required  to  make  her  bloom  again  ? 
The  supposition  was  not  hazardous  in  presence  of  her 
heightened  complexion. 

She  raised  her  eyes.  He  could  not  meet  her  look  without 
speaking. 

"  Can  you  forgive  deceit  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  to  boast  of  more  charity  than  I  know  my- 
self to  possess,  were  I  to  say  that  I  can, 'Sir  Willoughby.  I 
hope  I  am  able  to  forgive.  I  cannot  tell.  I  should  like  to 
say  yes." 

"  Could  you  live  with  the  deceiver  ?  " 

"No." 

"  No.  I  could  have  given  that  answer  for  yon.  No  sem- 
blance of  union  should  be  maintained  between  the  deceiver 
and  ourselves.     Lcetitia  !  " 


■I  .IT  EGOIST. 

"Sir  Willoughby  ?  " 

"Have  I  do  right  to  your  name  ?  " 

"  J f  it  please  \  on  to  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  speak  as  my  thoughts  run,  and  they  did  not  know  a 
I  (ale  so  well  as  a  dear  Lsetitia  :  my  truest  friend !   You 
have  talked  with  Clara  Middleton?" 

••  We  had  a  conversation." 

1  lei  brevity  affrighted  him.     He  flew  off  in  a  cloud. 

•  Reverting  to  thai  question  of  deceivers :  is  it  not  your 
opinion  thai  to  pardon,  to  condone,  is  to  corrupt  society  oj 
ing  off  as  pure  what  is  false  ?  Do  we  not,"  he  wore  the 
smile  of  haggard  playfulness  of  a  convalescent  child  the  first 
day  back  to  its  toys,  "  La^titia,  do  we  not  impose  a  counter- 
feit in!  the  currency  ?  " 

Supposing  it  to  be  really  deception." 

"Apart  from  my  loathing  of  deception,  of  falseness  in  any 
shape,  upon  any  grounds,  1  hold  it  an  imperious  duty  to  ex- 
.  punish,  off  with  it.  I  take  it  to  be  one  of  the  forms  of 
38  which  a  good  citizen  is  bound  to  extirpate.  1 
am  not  nivselt  good  citizen  enough,  I  confess,  for  much  more 
than  passive  abhorrence.  I  do  not  forgive:  I  am  at  heart 
serious  and  1  cannot  forgive: — there  is  no  possible  recon- 
ciliation, there  can  be  only  an  ostensible  truce,  between  the 
two  hostile  powers  dividing  this  world." 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly. 

"  ( rood  and  evil  !  "  he  said. 

Her  lace  expressed  a  surprise  relapsing  on  the  heart. 
He  was  anything  but  obtuse,  and  he  spelt  the  puckers  of 
her  forehead  to  mean,  that  she  feared  he  might  be  speaking 
nnchristianly. 

■•  Fob  will  find  it  so  in  all  religions,  my  dear  Laetitia :  the 
Hindoo,  the  Persian,  ours.  It  is  universal;  an  experience 
Df  our  humanity.  Deceil  and  sincerity  cannot  live  together. 
Truth  musl  kill  the  lie,  or  the  lie  will  kill  truth.  I  do  not 
forgive.     All  I  say  to  the  person  is,  go!" 

'•  l!ut  that  is  righi  !  that  is  generous ! "  exclaimed  Lostitia, 
glad  to  approve  him  for  the  sake  of  blinding  her  critical 
-    il.  and  relieved  by  the  idea  of  Clara's  difficulty  solved. 

"  Ca  able  of  generosity  perhaps,"  he  mused  aloud. 

She  wounded  him  by  not  supplying  the  expected  enthusi- 
astic asseveration  of  her  belief  in  his  general   tendency  to 
unanimity. 


SIK  WILLOUGHBY  ACHIEVES  PATHOS.  30o 

He  said  after  a  paiise  :  "  But  the  world  is  not  likely 
to  be  impressed  by  anything  not  immediately  gratifying  it 
People  change,  I  find  :  as  we  increase  in  years  we  cease  to 
be  the  heroes  we  were !  I  myself  am  insensible  to  change  : 
I  do  not  admit  the  charge.  Except  in  this,  we  will  say  : 
personal  ambition.  I  have  it  no  more.  And  what  is  it 
when  we  have  it  ?  Decidedly  a  confession  of  inferiority  ! 
That  is,  the  desire  to  be  distinguished  is  an  acknowledge- 
ment of  insufficiency.  But  I  have  still  the  craving  for  my 
dearest  friends  to  think  well  of  me.  A  weakness  ?  Call  it 
bo.     Not  a  dishonourable  weakness  !  " 

Laetitia  racked  her  brain  for  the  connection  of  his  present 
speech  with  the  preceding  dialogue.  She  was  baffled,  from 
not  knowing  '  the  heat  of  the  centre  in  him  '  as  Vernon 
opaquely  phrased  it  in  charity  to  the  object  of  her  worship. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  unappeased,  "  and  besides  the  passion  to 
excel,  I  have  changed  somewhat  in  the  heartiness  of  my 
thirst  for  the  amusements  incident  to  my  station.  I  do  not 
care  to  keep  a  stud — I  was  once  tempted:  nor  hounds.  And 
I  can  remember  the  day  when  I  determined  to  have  the 
best  kennels  and  the  best  breed  of  horses  in  the  kingdom. 
Puerile!  What  is  distinction  of  that  sort,  or  of  any  acqui- 
sition and  accomplishment  ?  We  ask  !  One's  self  is  not  the 
greater.  To  seek  it,  owns  to  our  smallness,  in  real  fact ; 
and  when  it  is  attained,  what  then  ?  My  horses  are  good, 
they  are  admired,  I  challenge  the  county  to  surpass  them  : 
well  ?  These  are  but  my  horses  ;  the  praise  is  of  the 
animals,  not  of  me.  I  decline  to  share  in  it.  Yet  I  know 
men  content  to  swallow  the  praise  of  their  beasts  and  be 
semi-equine.  The  littleness  of  one's  fellows  in  the  mob  of 
life  is  a  very  strange  experience !  One  may  regret  to  have 
lost  the  simplicity  of  one's  forefathers,  which  could  accept 
those  and  other  distinctions  with  a  cordial  pleasure,  not  to 
say  pride.  As  for  instance,  I  am,  as  it  is  called,  a  dead  shot. 
'  Give  your  acclamations,  gentlemen,  to  my  ancestors,  from 
whom  I  inherited  a  steady  hand  and  quick  sight.'  They  do 
not  touch  me.  Where  I  do  not  find  myself — that  I  am 
essentially  I — no  applause  can  move  me.  To  speak  to  you  as 
I  would  speak  to  none,  admiration — you  know  that  in  my 
early  youth  I  swam  in  flattery — I  had  to  swim  to  amid 
drowning  !  —  admiration  of  my  personal  gifts  has  grown 
tasteless.     Changed,  therefore,  inasmuch   as   there  has  been 


'i  in.  egoist; 

oi     ■  irituality.    We  are  all  in  submission  to  mortal 

-.  and  so  Ear  1    have  indee  I  changed.     I  may  add  that  it 

is   unusual   for  country  gentlemen   to  apply  theTrselves  to 

relies.     These  are,  however,  in   the  spirit  of 

the  time.     I  apprehended  thai  instinctively  wh<  n  at  College. 

I  forsook  the  classics  for  science.     And  thereby  escaped  the 

vice  of  domineering  self-sufficiency  peculiar  to  classical  men, 

of  which  yon   had  an   amusing  example  in  the  carriage,  on 

the  way  to   Mrs.    Mountstuart's    this   evening.      Science    is 

modest  :  Blow,  if  you   like:  it  deals  with  facts,  and  having 

mastered   them,   it   masters   men;    of  necessity,  not  with  a 

stupid  loud-mouthed  arrogance:  words  big  and  oddly-garbed 

ae   the  Pope's  body-guard!      Of   course,  one   bows   to   the 

Infallible;     we    must,    when   his    giant  -  mercenaries    level 

mets ! 

Sir  Willoughby  offered  Miss  Dale  half  a  minute  that  she 
might  in  gentle  feminine  fashion  acquiesce  in  the  implied 
reproof  of  Dr.  Middleton's  behaviour  to  him  during  the  drive 

Mrs.  Mountstuart's.     She  did  not. 

Ber  heart  was  accusing  Clara  of  having  done  it  a  wrong 
and  a  hurt.  For  while  he  talked  he  seemed  to  her  to  justify 
Clara's  feelings  and  her  conduct:  and  her  own  reawakened 
of  injury  came  to  the  surface  a  moment  to  look  at 
him.  affirming  that  they  pardoned  him,  and  pitied,  but 
hardly  wondered. 

The  heat  of  the  centre  in  him  had  administered  the  com- 
fort he  wanted,  though  the  conclusive  accordant  notes  he 
:  d  on  woman's  lips,  that  subservient  harmony  of  another 
instrument  desired  of  musicians  when  they  have  done  their 
Bolo-playing,  came  not  to  wind  up  1  he  performance  :  not  a 
single  bar.  She  did  not  speak.  Probably  his  Laetitia  was 
overcome,  as  he  had  long  known  her  to  be  when  they  con- 
re-subdued, unable  to  deploy  her  menial  resources 
or  her  musical.  Fel  ordinarily  she  had  command  of  the 
latter.  Was  -he  too  condoling ?  Did  a  reason  exist  for  it  ? 
Had  the  mpulsiveand  desperate  girl  spoken  out  to  Laetitia  to 
the  fu  11.  -i  ?  shameless  daughter  of  a  domim  ering  sire  that 
she  was!  ustlier   inquiry   lit    struck   the  centre  of  him 

nding  ring  Laetitia   T'i'yinc-  him   overmuch 

for  v  I  'an  th(  f  a    lit  ile  dill,  i  etwecn  lo.vers 

r  treason   on    the  part  of  his  bride  ?     Did  she  know  of  a 
rival  P  know  more  than  !     - 


SIR  WILLOUGHBY  ACHIEVES  PATHOS.  305 

Anything  but  obtuse,  when  the  centre  of  him  was  violently 
struck  he  was  a  genius  in  penetration.  He  guessed  that  she 
did  know  :  and  by  this  was  he  presently  helped  to  achieve 
pathos. 

"  So  my  election  was  for  Science,"  he  continued:  "and  if 
it  makes  me,  as  I  fear,  a  rara  avis  among  country  gentlemen, 
it  unites  me,  puts  me  in  the  main,  I  may  say.  in  the  only 
current  of  progress — a  word  sufficiently  despicable  in  their 
political  jargon. — You  enjoyed  your  evening  at  Mrs.  Mount- 
stuart's  ?  " 

li  Very  greatly." 

"  She  brings   her  pix>fessor  to  dine  here  the  day  after  to- 
morrow.    Does  it  astonish  jou  ?     You  started." 
"  I  did  not  hear  the  invitation." 

"  It  was  arranged  at  the  table  :  you  and  I  were  separated 
— cruellv,  I  told  her :  she  declared  that  we  see  enough  of 
one  another,  and  that  it  was  good  for  me  that  we  should  be 
separated  ;  neither  of  which  is  true.  I  may  not  have  known 
what  is  the  best  for  me  :  I  do  know  what  is  good.  If  in  my 
younger  days  I  egregiously  erred,  that,  taken  of  itself  alone, 
is,  assuming  me  to  have  sense  and  feeling,  the  surer  proof  of 
present  wisdom.  I  can  testify  in  person  that  wisdom  is  pain. 
If  pain  is  to  add  to  wisdom,  let  me  suffer  !  Do  you  approve 
of  that,  La?titia  ?  " 
"  It  is  well  said." 

"  It  is  felt.     Those   who  themselves  have  suffered  should 
know  the  benefit  of  the  resolution." 

"  One  may  have   suffered   so  much   as  to  wish   only  for 
peace." 

"  True  :  but  yon  !  have  you  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  for  peace,  if  I  prayed  for  an  earthly  gift." 
Sir  Willoughby  dropped  a  smile  on  her.  "  I  mentioned 
the  Pope's  parti-coloured  body-guard  just  now.  In  my 
youth  their  singular  attire  impressed  me.  People  tell  me 
they  have  been  re-uniformed  :  I  am  sorry.  They  remain 
one  of  my  liveliest  recollections  of  the  Eternal  City.  They 
affected  my  sense  of  humour,  always  alert  in  me,  as  you  are 
aware.  We  English  have  humour.  It  is  the  first  thing 
struck  in  us  when  we  land  on  the  Continent  :  our  risible 
faculties  are  generally  active  all  through  the  tour.  Humour, 
or  the  clash  of  sense  with  novel  examples  of  the  absurd,  if 
our  characteristic.     I   do  not  condescend  to  boisterous  dis. 

x 


THE  EGOIST. 

plays  of  it.     T  observe,  and  note  the  people's  comicalities  for 
my  correspondence.     Bui  you  have  read  my  letters — most  of 

them,  it  n"i  all  '■  " 

"  Man;,    of  them." 

••|  was  with  you  then! — I  was  about  to  say — that  Swiss- 
guard   reminded   me     you   have  not  been  in  Italy.     I  have 
atantly  regretted  it.     You  are  the  very  woman,  yon  have 
the  bouI  for  Italy.     1  know  do  other  of  whom  I  could  say  it, 
with  whof    1   should  not  Eeel  that  she  was  out  of  place,  dis- 
cordant with    me.     Italy  and    Laetitia!    often  have  I  joined 
her.     We  shall  see.     1  begin  to  have  hopes.      Here 
i  have  literally  stagnated.     Why.  a  dinner-party  refreshes 
you!    What  would  no1  travel  do,  and  that  heavenly  climate ! 
Y.hi  are  a   reader  of  history  and  poetry.     Well,  poetry  !     I 
never  vet   saw  the   poetry   that   expressed  the  tenth  part  of 
what  1  Eeel  in  the  presence  of  beauty  and  magnificence,  and 
1    really   meditate — profoundly.     Call   me    a    positive 
mmd.     I  Eeel:  only   1   Eeel  too  intensely  for  poetry.     By  the 
nature  of  it.  poetry  cannot  be  sincere.     I  will  have  sincerity. 
Whatever  touches  our  emotions  should  be  spontaneous,  not  a 
era,:.      I   know  you  are  in  favour  of  poetry.      You  would  win 
me,  if  any   one    could.      But    history  !  there   I   am   with  you. 
Walking  over   ruins:    at    eight:    the  arches  of  the  solemn 
black  amphitheatre  pouring  moonlight  on  us — the  moonlight 

'You  would  not  laugh  there,  Sir  Willoughby?"  said 
I.    ■  tia,    rousing    herself    from    a   stupor    of    apprehensive 

nazement,   to   utter  something  and   realize  actual  circum- 
Btanci 

Ml    -.  yon,  I  think,  or  I  am  mistaken  in  you  "  he 

deviated  Erom  his  p  ted  Bpeech — "  you  are  not  a  victim 

of  th(  ciation,  and  the  ludicrous." 

'■I  can  underhand  the  influence  of  it:  1  have  at  least  a 
conceptii  a  of  the  humourous:  but  ridicule  would  not  strike 
m  in  the  Coliseum  of  Rome.  I  could  not  bear  it,  no,  Sir 
Willoughby  !" 

She  appeared  to  1"-  taking  him  in  very  strong  earnest; 
almost  inflaming,  by  thus  petitioning  him  not  to  laugh  in  the 
1  i«*eum,  and  now  he  said:  "Besides,  you  are  one  who 
could  accommodate  yourself  to  the  society  of  the  ladies,  my 
aunts.     Good    women,   Laetitia!     1  cannot  imagine  them  de 


Sift  WILLOUGTTBY  ACHIEVES  PATHOS.  307 

trop  in  Italy,  or  in  a  household.     1  have  of  course  reason  to 
be  partial  in  my  judgement." 

"  They  are  excellent  and  most  amiable  ladies  ;  I  love 
them,"  said  Laatitia  fervently ;  the  more  strongly  excited  to 
fervour  by  her  enlightenment  as  to  his  drift. 

She  read  it,  that  he  designed  to  take  her  to  Italy  with  the 
ladies; — after  giving  Miss  Middleton  her  liberty;  that  was 
necessarily  implied.  And  that  was  truly  generous.  In  his 
boyhood  he  had  been  famous  for  his  bountifulness  in  scatter- 
ing silver  and  gold.  Might  he  not  have  caused  himself  to  be 
misperused  in  later  life  ? 

Clara  had  spoken  to  her  of  the  visit  and  mission  of.  the 
ladies  to  the  library:  and  Laititia  daringly  conceived  her- 
self to  be  on  the  certain  track  of  his  meaning,  .she  being  able 
to  enjoy  their  society  as  she  supposed  him  to  consider  that 
Miss  Middleton  did  not,  and  would  not  either  abroad  or  at 
home. 

Sir  Willoughbv  asked  her :  "You  could  travel  with  them?" 

"  Indeed  I  could  !" 

"Honestlv?" 

"  As  affirmatively  as  one  may  protest.    Helightedly." 

"  Agreed.  It  is  an  undertaking."  He  put  his  hand  out. 
""Whether  I  be  of  the  party  or  not !  To  Italy,  La'-titia  !  It 
would  give  me  pleasure  to  be  with  you,  and  it  will,  if  I  must 
be  excluded,  to  think  of  you  in  Italy !" 

His  hand  was  out.  She  had  to  feign  inattention  or  yield 
her  own.  She  had  not  the  effrontery  to  pretend  not  to  see,  and 
she  yielded  it.  He  pressed  it,  and  whenever  it  shrank  a 
quarter-inch  to  withdraw,  he  shook  it  up  and  down,  as  an 
instrument  that  had  been  lent  him  for  due  emphasis  to  his 
remarks.  And  very  emphatic  an  amorous  orator  can  make 
it  upon  a  captive  lady. 

"  I  am  unable  to  speak  decisively  on  that  or  any  subject. 
I  am,  I  think  you  once  quoted,  '  tossed  like  a  weed  on  the 
ocean.'  Of  myself  I  can  speak  :  I  cannot  speak  for  a  second 
person.  I  am  infinitely  harassed.  If  I  could  cry,  '  To  Italy 
to-morrow  !  '  Ah  !  .  .  .  .  Do  not  set  me  down  for  complaining. 
I  know  the  lot  of  man.  But  Laatitia,  deceit !  deceit !  lii 
is  a  bad  taste  in  the  mouth.  It  sickens  us  of  humanity. 
I  compare  it  to  an  earthquake  :  we  lose  all  our  reliance  on 
the  solidity  of  the  world.  It  is  a  betrayal  not  simply  of  the 
person  ;  it  is  a  betrayal  of  humankind.     My  friend  !     Con- 

x  2 


THE  EQOTST. 

slant  friend!     N"o,  1  will  not   d  ?pair.     Yes,  T  have  faults; 
I  will  remember  them.     Only,    orgivene  s  is  another  ques- 
tion.    V'-.  tin-  injury  I  can  lor rive:  tin'  falseness  never.  In 
the  interests  of  humanity,  □  >'■    So  younj,  and  such  deceit !  " 
Lsetitia's  bosom  rose  :  ber  I  anl  was  d  stained  :  a  lady  who 
bas  yielded   it  cannotwrest  i  to  have  it  back:  those  outworks 
which  protect  ber,  treacherously  shelter  the  enemy  aiming 
at  the  citadel  when   be  has  taken  them.     In  return  for  the 
silken  armour    bestowed    on    ber   by   our   civilization,  it   is 
sted  that  she  be  soft  and  civil  nigh  up  to  perishing-point. 
She  breathed  tremulously    bigh,  saying  on  her  top-breath: 
•  If  it     it  may   nol    be  so;  it   can  scarcely  .  .  .  ."     A  deep 
i  intervene  I.     It  saddened  ber  t  bat  she  knew  so  much. 
"For  when    1  love,    I    love,"   said    Sir   Willoughby ;  "my 
friends  and  niv'  servants  know  t  hat .  There  can  be  no  medium  : 
with  me.     I  give  all.  I   claim  all.     As   I  am   absorbed, 
v"   must     J   absorb.     We  both  cancel  and  create,  we  extin- 
h    and   we   illumine  one  anot her.     The  error  may  be  in 
the  choice  of  an  object  :  it  is  not  in  t lie  passion.  Perfect  con- 
fidence,  perfect   abandonment.     1   repeat,]   el  aim  it  because 
1        e  it.     The  selfishness  of  love  may  be  denounced:  it  is  a 
My  answer  would  be,  it  is  an  element  only  of 
thenoblestof  Love,  Lsetitia !     I  speak   of  love.      But 

one  who  breaks  faith  to  drag  us  through  the  mire,  who  be- 
s,  betrays  and  hands  as  over  to  the  world;  whose  prey 
we  become  identically  because  of  virtues  we  were  educated 
to  think  it  a  blessing  to  possess:  tell  me  the  name  for  thai  ! 
""  :   ''  bas  ever  been   a    principle   with  me  to  respect 

tne   >IX-      Bui    if  we   see   women  false,  treacherous 

Wh\  indulge  in  these  abstract  views,  von   would   ask!     The 
w",|,i    !"•■     '  -    them    on    as,    full    as    it     is    of    the    vilest, 
Thi  to  pluck   up  every  rooted   principle: 

thej    Bneer   at    our  worship:    they  rob  us   of  our  religion. 
This  bitter  experience  of  the   world  drives   as  back  to  the 
antidote  of  what  we  knew  before  we  plunged  into  it:  of  on.; 
.  .  .  of  something  we  esteemed  and  still  esteem.     Is  that 

|"-1  the  poison  ?      I  hope  so!     I 
To  li  9e  faith  in  womankind  is  terrible." 
He  studied    her.      She    looked    distressed:    she    was  not 

thinking  that,  with   the  exception  of  a  strain  of 
haughtiness,  he   talked  excellently  to  men.  at  least  in  the 


SIR  WILLOUGHBY  ACHIEVES  PATHOS.  309 

tone  of  the  things  lie  meant  to  say ;  but  that  his  manner  of 
talking  to  women  went  to  an  excess  in  the  artificial  tongue — - 
the  tutored  tongue  of  sentimental  deference  of  the  towering 
male:  he  fluted  exceedingly;  and  she  wondered  whether  it 
was  this  which  had  wrecked  him  with  Miss  Middleton. 

His  intuitive  sagacity  counselled  him  to  strive  for  pathos 
to  move  her.  It  was  a  task  ;  for  while  he  perceived  her  to  be 
not  ignorant  of  his  plight,  he  doubted  her  knowing  the  extent 
of  it,  and  as  his  desire  was  merely  to  move  her  without  an 
exposure  of  himself,  he  had  to  compass  being  pathetic  as  it 
were  under  the  impediments  of  a  mailed  and  gauntletted 
knight,  who  cannot  easily  heave  the  bosom,  or  show  it  heaving. 

Moreover  pathos  is  a  tide :  often  it  carries  the  awakener 
of  it  off  his  feet,  and  whirls  him  over  and  over,  armour  and 
all  in  ignominious  attitudes  of  helpless  prostration,  whereof 
he  may  well  be  ashamed  in  the  retrospect.  We  cannot  qui^e 
preserve  our  dignity  when  we  stoop  to  the  work  of  calling 
forth  tears.  Moses  had  probably  to  take  a  nimble  jump 
away  from  the  rock  after  that  venerable  Law-giver  had 
knocked  the  water  out  of  it. 

However,  it  was  imperative  in  his  mind  that  he  should  be 
sure  he  had  the  power  to  move  her. 

He  began  :  clumsily  at  first,  as  yonder  gauntletted  knight 
attempting  the  briny  handkerchief  : 

'  What  are  we  !  We  last  but  a  very  short  time.  Why 
not  live  to  gratify  our  appetites  ?  I  might  really  ask  my- 
self why.  All  the  means  of  satiating  them  are  at  my  dis- 
posal. But  no  :  I  must  aim  at  the  highest:  — at  that  which 
in  my  blindness  I  took  for  the  highest.  Yon  know  the 
sportsman's  instinct,  Lastit-'a ;  he  is  not  tempted  by  the 
.stationary  object.  Such  are  we  in  youth,  toying  with 
happiness,  leaving  it,  to  aim  at  the  dazzling  and  attractive." 

"  We  gain  knowledge,"  said  Laatitia. 

"  At  what  cost !  " 

The  exclamation  summoned  self-pity  to  his  aid,  and  pathos 
was  handy. 

"  By  paying  half  our  lives  for  it  and  all  our  hopes  !  Yes, 
we  gain  knowledge,  we  are  the  wiser ;  very  probably  my 
value  surpasses  now  what  it  was  when  I  was  happier.  But 
the  loss!  That  youthful  bloom  of  the  soul  is  like  health  to 
the  body ;  once  gone,  it  leaves  cripples  behind.  Nay,  my 
friend  and  precious  friend,  these  four  fingers  I  must  retain 


;}|0  THE  EGOIST. 

They  seem  to  me  the  residue  of  a  wreck:  you  shall  be 
released  shortly:  absolutely,  kaetitia,  1  have  nothing  else 
remaining  We  have  spoken  of  deception:  what  of  being 
undeceived  ?— when  one  whom  we  adored  is  laid  bare,  and 
the  wretched  consolation  of  a  worthy  object  is  denied  to  us. 
ortune  can  be  like  that.  Were  it  death,  we  could 
worship  still.  Death  would  be  preferable.  But  may  you  be 
spared  to  know  a  situation  in  which  the  comparison  with 
your  int.  rior  is  forced  on  you  to  your  disadvantage  and  your 
loss  because  of  vour  generously  giving  up  your  whole  heart 

to   the  custody  of   some  shallow,   li^ht-minded,  self   ! 

we  will  not  deal  in  epithets.     If   1  were  to  find  as 

many  had   names  for  the  serpent  as  there  are  spots  on  his 

,,',   it    would   be   serpent  still,  neither  better  nor  worse. 

.      The  loneliness !     And  the  darkness!     Our  luminary 

to  extinguished.  Self-respect  refuses  to  continue  worshipping, 

but  the  affection  will  not  be  turned  aside.     We  are  literally 

in   the   dust,    we   grovel,   we  would  fling  away  self-respect  if 

wonld  adopt  for  a  model  the  creature  preferred 

to  us;    we  would   humiliate,   degrade  ourselves;  we  cry  for 

justice  as  if  it  wen-  for  pardon  .... 

■•  For  pardon!  when  we  are  straining  to  grant  it!"  Lnetitia 
murmured,  and  it  was  as  much  as  she  could  do.  She  re- 
membered  how  in  her  old  misery  her  efforts  after  charity 
had  twisted  her  round  to  feel  herself  the  sinner,  and  beg 
in  prayer:  a  noble  sentiment,  that  filled  her 
with  pity  of  the  bosom  in  which  it  had  sprung.  There  was 
no  similarity  between  his  idea  and  hers,  but  her  idea  had 
rtainly  been  roused  by  his  word  'pardon,'  and  he  had  the 
benefit  of  it  in  the  moisture  of  her  eyes.     Her  lips  trembled, 

PS    tell. 

He  had  heard  something;  he  had  not  caught  the  words, 

hut  they  were   manifestly   favourable;  her  Bign  of  emotion 

ired  him  of  it  and  of  the  success  he  had  sought.     There 

-  one  woman  who  bowed  to  him  to  all  eternity  !     He  had 

inspired  one  woman  with  the  mysterious  man-desired  passion 

of   self-abandonment,   self-immolation!     The  evidence    was 

him.     At   any  I    he  could,  if  he  pleased,  fly  to 

1  command  her  eul  husiasm. 

He  had.  in  fact,  perhaps  by  sympathetic  action,  succeeded 

iti  striking  the  same  springs  of  pathos  in  her  which  animated 

i      lively  endeavour  to  produce  it  in  himself. 


SIR  WILLOUGHBY  ACHIEVES  PATHOS.  311 

He  kissed  her  hand  ;  then  released  it,  quitting  his  chair 
to  bend  above  her  soothingly. 

"  Do  not  weep,  Lsetitia,  you  see  that  I  do  not :  I  can  smile. 
Help  me  to  bear  it ;  you  must  not  unman  me." 

She  tried  to  stop  her  crying;  but  self-pity  threatened  to 
rain  all  her  long  years  of  grief  on  her  head,  and  she  said  : 
"  I  must  go  ...  .  I  am  unfit  ....  good  night,  Sir  Wil- 
loughby." 

Fearing  seriously  that  he  had  sunk  his  pride  too  low  in 
her  consideration,  and  had  been  carried  farther  than  he  in- 
tended on  the  tide  of  pathos,  he  remarked  :  "  We  will  speak 
about  Crossjay  to-morrow.  His  deceitfulness  has  been  gross. 
As  I  said,  I  am  grievously  offended  by  deception.  But  you 
are  tired.  Good  nig'ht,  my  dear  friend." 
"  Good  night,  Sir  Willoughby." 
She  was  allowed  to  go  forth. 

Colonel  De  Crave  coming  up  from  the  smoking-room,  met 
her  and  noticed  the  state  of  her  eyelids,  as  he  wished  her 
good-night.  He  saw  Willoughby  in  the  room  she  had 
quitted,  but  considerately  passed  without  speaking,  and 
without  reflecting  why  he  was  considerate. 

Our  hero's  review  of  the  scene  made  him  on  the  whole 
satisfied  with  his  part  in  it.  Of  his  power  upon  one  woman 
he  was  now  perfectly  sure  : — Clara  had  agonized  him  with  a 
dou  t  of  his  personal  mastery  of  any.  One,  was  a  poor 
feast,  but  the  pangs  of  his  flesh  during  the  last  few  days 
and  the  latest  hours,  caused  him  to  snatch  at  it,  hungrily  if 
contemptuously.  A  poor  feast,  she  was  yet  a  fortress,  a 
point  of  succour,  both  shield  and  lance  ;  a  cover  and  an 
impetus.  He  could  now  encounter  Clara  boldly.  Should 
she  resist  and  defy  him,  he  would  not  be  naked  and  alone ; 
he  foresaw  that  he  mig-ht  win  honour  in  the  world's  eye 
from  his  position  : — a  matter  to  be  thought  of  only  in  most 
urgent  need.  The  effect  on  him  of  his  recent  exercise  in 
pathos  was  to  compose  him  to  slumber.  He  was  for  the 
period  well-satisfied. 

His  attendant  imps  were  well-satisfied  likewise,  and 
danced  a  round  about  his  bed  after  the  vigilant  gentleman 
had  ceased  to  debate  on  the  question  of  his  unveiling  of 
himself  past  forgiveness  of  her  to  Loetitia,  and  had  sur- 
rendered unto  benignant  sleep  the  present  direction  of  his 
affairs. 


THE   I  QOIST. 


CHAPTEB   XXXII. 

LJTTTTA  DALE  DIS<  0V1  I.S  A  SPIRITUAL  CHANGE  AND 
DE.  MIDDLETOM  A  PHYSICAL. 

Clara  tripped  ot  er  the  lawn  in  the  early  morning  to  Lretitia 
•  her.     She  broke  away  from  a  colloquy  with  Colonel 

under   Sir   Willi. u<_dd.y's    windows.     The  colonel 
had   been  one  <>f  the  bathers,  and  he  stood  like  a  circus 
driver,  flicking  a  wel  towel  at  Crossjay  capering. 
■•  My  dear,  1  am  very  unhappy!  "  said  Clara. 

My  dear,  I  bring  you  oews,"  Leatitia  replied. 

"Tell   me.      Bui   the   poor    boy    is    to   be  expelled!     He 

Crossjay's  bed-room   last  eight  and  dragged  the 

it  nt'    bed  to  question    him,  and    lie    had  the 

•i.     That  is  one  comfort:  only  Crossjay  is  to  be  driven 

the    II  ill  because  lie   was   untruthful   previously — for 

me;    really,  I  feel   it   was    at   my    command. 

i  v  will  In-  mil  i,i    the  way  to-day  and  has  promised  to 

comi  at   night  to  try  to  be  forgiven.     You  must  help 

Clara  !      If  you  desire  it,  you  have  hut 
•r  your  freedom." 
U  in  ....  ?" 

•  IT--  -.sill  release  you." 

-   V.   U    B         -   ,:■ 

1  W<  i  long  ■  ;'  inn  last  night." 

■■  I 

owing  to  me.     He  volunteered  it." 

if  to   lift   her  eyes  in  apostrophe.     "  Pro- 
I't  Crooklyn!     I   see.     I   did  not 

■ 

erosity,  Clara;  you  are  unjust." 

and -by  :   1  will  be  mere  than  just  by-and-by.     I  will 

"ii    tii''    trumpet:    I    will  lecture  on  the  greatness  of 

men    when    we   know    them   thoroughly.      At 

half  know  them*  and  -.■..•  are  unjust.     You 

Tin -re  is  to  be  no  speaking  to 

Yon  have  agitated  me.     I  feel  m 

dl   person   indeed.     1  feel  I  can  understand  those 


EXPERIENCES  OF  L2ETITIA  AND  DK.  MIDDLETON.  313 

(vho  admire  him.  He  gives  me  ba^k  my  word  simply  t* 
clearly  ?  without — Oil  !  that  long-  wrangle  in  scenes  and 
letters  ?  And  it  will  be  arranged  for  papa  and  me  to  go  not 
later  than  to  morrow  ?  Never  shall  I  be  able  to  explain  to 
any  one  how  I  fell  into  this !  1  am  frightened  at  myself 
when  I  think  of  it.  I  take  the  whole  blame:  I  have  been  scan 
dalous.  And  dear  LaDtitia  !  you  came  out  so  early  in  order 
to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  1  wished  you  to  hear  it." 

"  Take  my  heart." 

"  Present  me  with  a  part — but  for  good  !  " 

"  Fie  !     But  you  have  a  right  to  say  it." 

"  I  mean  no  unkindness  ;  but  is  not  the  heart  you  allude 
to  an  alarmingly  searching  one  ?  " 

"  Selfish  it  is,  for  I  have  been  forgetting  Crossjay.  If  we 
are  going  to  be  generous,  is  not  Crossjay  to  be  forgiven?  If 
it  were  only  that  the  boy's  father  is  away  fighting  for  his 
country,  endangering  his  life  day  by  day,  and  for  a  stipend 
not  enough  to  support  his  family,  we  are  bound  to  think  of 
the  boy  !  Poor  dear  silly  lad!  with  his  'I  say,  Miss  Middle- 
ton,  why  wouldn't  (some  one)  see  my  father  when  he  came 
here  to  call  on  him,  and  had  to  walk  back  ten  miles  in  the 
rain  ?  ' — I  could  almost  fancy  that  did  me  mischief  .... 
But  we  have  a  splendid  morning  after  yesterday's  rain 
And  we  will  be  generous.  Own,  Lastitia,  that  it  is  possible 
to  gild  the  most  glorious  day  of  creation." 

"  Doubtless  the  spirit  may  do  it  and  make  its  hues  per- 
manent," said  Lsetitia. 

"You  to  me,  I  to  you,  he  to  us.  Well,  then,  if  he  does, 
it  shall  be  one  of  ray  heavenly  days.  Which  is  for  the  pro- 
bation of  experience.     We  are  not  yet  at  sunset." 

"  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Whitford  this  morning  ?  " 

"  He  passed  me." 

"  Do  not  imagine  him  ever  ill-tempered." 

"  I  had  a  governess,  a  learned  lady,  who  taught  me  in 
person  the  picturesqueness  of  grumpiness.  Her  temper  was 
ever  perfect,  because  she  was  never  in  the  wrong,  but  I  being 
so,  she  was  grumpy.  She  carried  my  iniquity  under  hei 
brows,  and  looked  out  on  me  through  it.  I  was  a  trying 
child." 

Lastitia  said,  laughing  :  "  I  can  believe  it !  " 

"  Yet  I  liked  her  and  she   liked   me :  we  were  a  kind  of 


.  > 


1  I  THE  EGOIST. 


TOtmd  and  background  :  she  threw  me  into  relief,  and  1 
was  .in  apology  U>v  her  existence." 
••  Fou  picture  her  to  me." 

-  of  me  now,  thai  I  am  the  only  creature  she  has 
I   Wlm  knows  thai  1  may  not  come  to  say  thcsameof  her?" 
••  Vim  would  plague  her  and  puzzle  her  still." 
"  Have  1  plagued  and  puzzled  Mr.  Whitford?" 
"  He  reminds  you  of  her  F 
"Vim  said  you  had  her  picture." 
"  All  !  do  nut  laugh  at  him.     He  is  a  true  friend." 
'•  The  man   who  can  be  a  friend  is  the  man  who  will  pre- 
sume to  be  a  censor." 
■•  A  mild  one." 

',-  tu  the  sentence  he  pronounces,  I  am  unable  to  speak, 
but  his  forehead  is  Khadamanthine  condemnation." 
-  Dr.  Middleton!" 

ia  lm  iked  round,  "Who?     I?     Did  you  hear  an  echo 

of   papa?     He  would  never  have  put  Rhadamanthus  over 

European    souls,    because   it   appears    that   Rhadamanthus 

judged  only  the  Asiatic;  so  you  are  wrong,  Miss  Dale.     My 

father  is  infatuated  with  Mr.  Whitford.     What  can  it  be? 

We   women   cannot  sound  the  depths  of  scholars,  probably 

their  pearls    have  no   value  in  our  market ;  except 

when  they  deign  to  chasten  an  impertinent;  and  Mr.  Whit- 

ford  Btands  aloof  from  any  notice  of  small  fry.     He  is  deep, 

Btudion  lent;    and   dues  it  not  strike  you   that  if  he 

led  among  us  he  would  be  like  a  Triton  ashore  ?  " 

Lcetitia's   habil   of   wholly    subservient   sweetness,    which 

her  ideal   of   the  feminine,  not  yet  conciliated  with  her 

acuter  character,  owing  to  the  absence  of  full  pleasure  from 

liri-   life  -  the    unhealed   wound  she  had  sustained  and  the 

cramp   of   a   bondage  of  such  old  date  as  to  seem  iron — 

induced  her  to  as  if  consenting:  "You  think  he  is  not 

quite  at  home  in  b<  But  she  wished  to  defend  him 

nuously,  and   as   a  consequence  she  had  to  quit  the  self- 

imposed   ideal   of   her  daily  acting,  whereby — the  case  being 

unwonted,  very  novel  to  ber— the  lady's  intelligence  became 

confased  through  the  process  that  quickened  it;  so  sovereign 

a  method  of  hoodwinking  our  bright  selves  is  the  acting  of  a 

. -i ■!•  naturally  it   may  come  to  us  !  and  to  this  will 

i  honest  autobiographical  member  of  the  animated  world 

'■     vvitll' 


EXPERIENCES  OP  L.ETITIA  AND  DR.  MIDDLETON.         315 

She  added  :  "  Ydu  have  not  found  him  sympathetic  ?  He 
is.  You  fancy  him  brooding,  gloomy  ?  He  is  the  reverse ; 
he  is  cheerful,  he  is  indifferent  to  personal  misfortune.  Dr. 
Coruey  says  there  is  no  laugh  like  Vernon  Whitford's,  and 
no  humour  like  his.  Lattei-ly  he  certainly  ....  but  it  has 
not  been  your  cruel  word  grumpiness.  The  truth  is,  he  is 
anxious  about  Crossjay  :  and  about  other  things  ;  and  he 
wants  to  leave.  He  is  at  a  disadvantage  beside  very  lively 
and  careless  gentlemen  at  present,  but  your  '  Triton  ashore,' 
is  unfair,  it  is  ugly.  He  is,  I  can  say,  the  truest  man  I 
know." 

"  I  did  not  question  his  goodness,  Laetitia." 

"  You  threw  an  accent  on  it." 

"  Did  I  ?  I  must  be  like  Crossjay,  who  declares  he  likes 
fun  best." 

"  Crossjay  ought  to  know  him,  if  anybody  should.  Mr. 
Whitford  has  defended  you  against  me,  Clara,  ever  since  I 
took  to  calling  you  Clara.  Perhaps  when  you  supposed  him 
so  like  your  ancient  governess,  he  was  meditating  how  he 
could  aid  you.  Last  night  he  gave  me  reasons  for  thinking 
you  would  do  wisely  to  confide  in  Mrs.  Mountstuart.  It  is 
no  longer  necessary.  I  merely  mention  it.  He  is  a  devoted 
friend." 

"  He  is  an  untiring  pedestrian." 

"  Oh  !" 

Colonel  De  Craye,  after  hovering  near  the  ladies  in  the 
hope  of  seeing  them  divide,  now  adopted  the  method  of 
making  three  that  two  may  come  of  it. 

As  he  joined  them  with  his  glittering  chatter,  Lastitia 
locked  at  Clara  to  consult  her,  and  saw  the  face  rosy  as  a 
bride's. 

The  suspicion  she  had  nursed  sprang  out  of  her  arms  a 
muscular  fact  on  the  spot. 

"  Where  is  my  dear  boy  ?"  Clara  said. 

"  Out  for  a  holiday,"  the  colonel  answered  in  her  tone. 

"  Advise  Mr.  Whitford  not  to  waste  his  time  in  searching 
for  Crossjay,  Laatitia.  Crossjay  is  better  out  of  the  way  to- 
day. At  least,  I  thought  so  just  now.  Has  he  pocket-money, 
Colonel  De  Craye  ?" 

"  My  lord  can  command  his  inn." 

"  How  thoughtful  you  are  !" 

La?titia's  bosom  swelled  upon  a  mute  exclamation,  eqniva- 


316  TTTF  EGOIST. 

lent  to:  'Woman!  woman!    snared   ever  by  the  spai-klin? 
and  frivolous!   undiscerning  of  the  faithful,  the  modest  and 
Bcent  !' 
In  the  secret  mnsings  of  moralists  this  dramatic  rhetoric 

Mll'\i\  i 

The  comparison  was  all  of  her  own  making  and  she  was 
indignant  at  the  contrast,  though  to  what  end  she  was  indig- 
she  could  not  have  said,  for  she  had  no  idea  of  Vernon 
as  a   rival  of  De  Crave   in   the  favour  of  a  plighted  lady. 
she  was  jealous  on  behalf  of  her  sex:  her  sex's  reputa- 
tion seemed  at   stake,  and   the  purity  of  it  was  menaced  by 
Clara's   idle    preference  of  the  shallower  man.     When  the 
young  lady  spoke  so  carelessly  of  being  like  Crossjay,  she 
did  in .t   perhaps  know  that  a  likeness,  based  on  a  similarity 
of  their  enthusiasms,  loves,  and  appetites,  has  been  estab- 
lished    between    women  and   boys.      Lastitia  had   formerly 
chafed  at   it,  rejecting  it  utterly,   save  when  now  and  then 
in  a    season    of    bitterness    she   handed    here    and    there    a 
volatile  young  lady  (none  but  the  young)  to  be  stamped  with 
the  degrading  brand.    Vernon  might  be  as  philosophical  as  he 
pleased.     To  her  the  gaiety  of  these  two,  Colonel  De  Craye 
and   ('lata   Middleton,  was  distressingly  musical:  they  har- 
monized  painfully.     The  representative  of  her  sex  was  hurt 
by  it. 

She  had  to  stay  beside  them:  Clara  held  her  arm.  The 
solonel's  voice  dropped  at  times  to  something  very  like  a 
\vhi<per.  He  was  answered  audibly  and  smoothly.  The 
quick-witted  gentleman  accepted  the  correction:  but  in 
immediately  paying  assiduous  attentions  to  Miss  Dale,  in 
the  approved  intriguer's  fashion,  he  showed  himself  in  need 
of  another  amounting  to  a  reproof .     Clara  said:  "We  have 

1 n  consulting,  Lsel  it  ia,  what  is  to  be  done  to  cure  Professor 

Crooklyn   of  his  cold."      De   Craye  perceived   that   he  hail 

a  wrong  step,  and  he  was  mightily  surprised  that  a 

lesson  in   intrigue  should  be  read   to  him  of  all  men.     Miss 

Mi ddleton's  audacity  was  not,  so  astonishing :  he  recognized 

ind    capabilities    in  the   young   lady.       Fearing  lest  she 

should   proceed   farther  and  cut  away  from  him  his  vantage- 

ind  of  with   her,  he  turned  the  subject  and  was 

adroitly  submissive. 

Clara's   manner  of  meeting  Sir  Willoughby  expressed  a 
timid  di  on  to  friendliness  nponavciled  inquiry,  under- 


EXPERIENCES  OF  LiETITIA  AND  DR.  MIDDLETON.  317 

stood   by  none   save   Lcetitia,    whose   brain    was    racked  to 
convey  assurances  to  herself  of  her  not  having  misinterpreted 
him.     Could  there  be  any  doubt  ?     She  resolved  that  there 
could  not  be  ;  and  it  was  upon  this  basis  of  reason — that  she 
fancied  she  had  led  him  to  it.     Legitimate  or  not,  the  fancy 
sprang  from  a   solid  foundation.      Yesterday  morning    she 
could  not  have  conceived  it.     Now  she  was  endowed  to  feel 
that  she  had  power  to  influence  him,  because  now,  since  the 
midnight,  she  felt  some  emancipation  from  the  spell  of  his 
physical  mastery.     He  did  not  appear  to  her  as  a  different 
man,  but  she  had  grown  sensible  of  being  a  stronger  woman. 
He  was  no  more  the   cloud  over  her,  nor  the  magnet;  the 
cloud  once  heaven-suffused,  the  magnet  fatally  compelling 
her  to  sway  round  to  him.     She  admired  him  still :  his  hand- 
some  air,  his  fine  proportions,  the  courtesy   of  his   bending 
to  Clara  and  touching  of  her  hand,  excused  a  fanatical  excess 
of  admiration  on  the  part  of  a  woman  in  her  youth,  who  is 
never  the  anatomist  of  the  hero's  lordly  graces.     But  now 
she  admired  him  piecemeal.     When  it  came  to  the  putting  of 
him  together,  she  did  it  coldly.     To  compassionate  him  was 
her  utmost  warmth.     Without  conceiving  in  him  anything 
of  the  strange  old  monster  of  earth  which  had  struck  the 
awakened  girl's  mind  of  Miss  Middleton,  La?titia  classed  him 
with   other  men :  he  was  '  one  of   them.'     And  she  did  not 
bring  her  disenchantment  as   a  charge   against  him.     She 
accused  herself,  acknowledged  the  secret  of  the  change  to  be, 
that  her  youthfulness  was  dead  : — otherwise  could  she  have 
given  him  compassion,  and  not  herself  have  been  carried  on  , 
the  flood  of  it  ?     The  compassion  was  fervent,  and  pure  too. 
She  supposed  he  would  supplicate ;  she  saw  that  Clara  Mid- 
leton  was  pleasant  with  him  only  for  what  she  expected  of 
his  generosity.     She  grieved.     Sir  Willoughby  was  fortified 
by  her  sorrowful  gaze  as  he  and  Clara  passed  out  together  to 
the  laboratory  arm  in  arm. 

Laetitia  had  to  tell  Vernon  of  the  uselessness  of  his  beating 
the  house  and  grounds  for  Crossjay.  Dr.  Middleton  held 
him  fast  in  discussion  upon  an  overnight's  classical  wrangle 
with  Professor  Crooklyn,  which  was  to  be  renewed  that  day. 
The  professor  had  appointed  to  call  expressly  to  renew  it. 
"  A  fine  scholar,"  said  the  Rev.  doctor,  "but  crotchetty,  like 
all  men  who  cannot  stand  their  Port." 


319  TTTK  EGOIST. 

■  I  hear  thai  he  had  a  cold,"  Vernon  remarked.     "I  hope 
the  wire  v  td,  sir." 

A-  \\  hen  the  foreman  of  a  sentimental  jury  is  commissioned 
form  an  awful  Bench  exact  in  perspicuous  English,  of  a 
verdicl  thai  musl  of  necessity  be  pronounced  in  favour  of  the 
hanging  "1"  the  culprit,  "yet  would  fain  attenuate  the  crime  of 
Ipable  villain  by  a  recommendation  to  mercy,  such  fore- 
man, standing  in  the  attentive  eve  of  a  master  of  grammatical 
traction,  and  feeling  the  weighi   of  at  least  three  sen- 
on  his    brain,  together  with  a  prospect  of  judicial 
in  for  the  discovery   of   his    precise  meaning,  is 
oppressed,  himself  is  put  on  trial  in  turn,  and  he- hesitates, 
he  recapitulates,  tin1    fear  of   involution   leads   him  to   be 
involved  ;  as    far  as    a   man   so   posted   may,  he  on  his  own 
behalf  appeals  for  mercy  ;  entreats  that   bis  indistinct  state- 
meiit  of   preposterous  reasons  may  be  taken  for  understood, 
and  would   gladly,  were  permission  to  do  it  credible,  throw 
in  an   imploring  word,  that  he  may  sink  back    among  the 
crowd    without   for  the  one  imperishable  moment  publicly 
swinging  in  his  lordship's  estimation: — much  so,  moved  by 
chivalry   toward  a  lady,  courtesy  to  the   recollection   of   a 
and  particularly  by  the  knowledge  that  his  hearer 
v  in,  ct  with  a  certain  frigid  rigour  charity  of  him,  Dr. 

Middle-  spoke  and  paused:  he  stammered.    Ladies, 

said,   were   famous  poisoners  in  the  Middle  .Ages.     His 
that  we  had  a  class  of  manufacturing  wine- 
on  the  watch  for  widows  in  this  country.      But  he 
'■  the  fact  of   his  waking  at  his  usual  hour 
died  by  headache.     <  >n  the  other  hand, 
nan:  icipated  when  he 
bed.     Mr.  Whitford,  however,  was  not  to  think  that 
rancour  toward  the  wine.     It  was  no  doubt 
with   the   1  able  intention  of   cheering.      In 

>le.    judging  by  results   it  was  in- 

r   of  it   shall  be  I  -   of  it  upon  Professor 

1  in   the  forenoon  according  to 

to  an  end  with  his  petturbed 

inga.  >f  the  eiidn  or  twelve  winds 

a«  one.  a  railway  platform,  and  the  young 

who  dries  herself  of  a  qo    by   drinking  brandy 


EXPERIENCES  OP  L.ETITIA  AND  DR.  MIDDLETON.         319 

and  water  with  a  gentleman  at  a  railway  inn,  I  shall  solicit 
your  sanction  to  my  condemnation  of  the  wine  as  anti- 
Bacchic  and  a  counterfeit  presentment.  Do  not  misjudge 
me.  Our  hostess  is  not  responsible.  But  widows  should 
ma:  ry." 

"  1  ou  must  contrive  to  stop  the  professor,  sir,  if  he  should 
attack  his  hostess  in  that  manner,"  said  Vernon. 
"  Widows  should  marry  !"  Dr.  Middleton  repeated. 
He  murmured  of  objecting  to  be  at  the  discretion  of  a 
butler :  unless,  he  was  careful  to  add,  the  aforesaid  func- 
tionary could  boast  of  an  University  education :  and  even 
then,  said  he,  it  requires  a  line  of  ancestry  to  train  a  man's 
taste. 

The  Rev.  doctor  smothered  a  yawn.  The  repression  of  it 
caused  a  second  one,  a  real  monster,  to  come,  big  as  our  old 
friend  of  the  sea  advancing  on  the  chained-up  Beauty. 

Disconcerted  by  this  damning  evidence  of  indigestion,  his 
countenance  showed  that  he  considered  himself  to  have  been 
too  lenient  to  the  wine  of  an  unhusbanded  hostess.  He 
frowned  terribly. 

In  the  interval  Lostitia  told  "Vernon  of  Crossjay's  flight  for 
the  day,  hastily  bidding  the  master  to  excuse  him  :  she  had 
no  time  to  hint  the  grounds  of  excuse.  Vernon  mentally 
made  a  guess. 

Dr.  Middleton  took  his  arm  and  discharged  a  volley  at  the 
crotchetty  scholarship  of  Professor  Crooklvn,  whom  to  con- 
fute by  book,  he  directed  his  march  to  the  library.  Having 
persuaded  himself  that  he  was  dyspeptic,  he  had  grown 
irascible.  He  denounced  all  dining  out,  eulogized  Patterne 
Hall  as  if  it  were  his  home,  and  remembered  he  had  dreamed 
in  the  night : — a  most  humiliating  sign  of  physical  disturb- 
ance. "  But  let  me  find  a  house  in  proximity  to  Patterne,  as 
I  am  induced  to  suppose  I  shall,"  he  said,  "  and  here  only 
am  I  to  be  met  when  I  stir  abroad." 

Lastitia  went  to  her  room.  She  was  complacently 
anxious,  enough  to  prefer  solitude  and  be  willing  to  read. 
She  was  more  seriously  anxious  about  Crossjay  than  about 
any  of  the  others.  For  Clara  would  be  certain  to  speak 
very  definitely,  and  how  then  could  a  gentleman  oppose  her  ? 
He  would  supplicate,  and  could  she  be  brought  to  yield  ? 
It  was  not  to  be  expected  of  a  young  lady  who  had  turned 
from    Sir    Wiiloughby.       His  inferiors    would   have  had  a 


THE  EGOIST. 

Whatever  bis  faults,  he  had  that  clement  of 

36   which  excludes   tb*   intercession  of  pity.      Sup- 

plication  would  be  with   him  a  form   of  condescension.     It 

to  1"-  Midi.     His  was  a  monumental  pride 

thai  could  :i"t  Btoop.     She  ha  I  preserved  this  image  of  the 

tleman  for  a  relic  in  the  shipwreck  of  her  idolatry.     So 

mused  between  the  lines  of  her  book,  and  finishing  her 

and    marking   the   paire,  she  glanced  down  on  t ho 

lawn.       Dr.    Middleton    \\a>    there,   and   alone;    his    hands 

ind  his  hack,  his  lead    bent.     His  meditative  pace  and 

unwonted    perusal    of    the    turf    proclaimed    that   a  non- 

■ 'mental  jury  within  had  delivered  an  unmitigated  ver- 

did     upon     the    widow's    wine.      Loetitia    hurried    to    find 

nil. 

11.    was  in  the  hall.     As  she  drew  near  him,  the  labora- 

or  opened  and  shut. 
"h  is  being  decided,"  said  Las! Ltia. 
Vernon  was  (paler  than  the  hue  of  perfect  calmness. 
"  I  wanl   to  know  whether  I  oughl   to  lake  1o  my  heels 
lik ■    I  .  and  slum  the  profi  880r,"  lie  said. 

6  in  undertones,  furtively  watching  the  door. 
'•  1  wish  what  she  wishes,  I  am  sure,  but  it  will  go  badly 

d    I/itiu'a. 
"Oh,   well,  then    I'll   take  him."  said  Vernon,  "I  would 

■■  p.     1  think  I  can  manage  it." 
Again    the   laboratory   door  opened.      This  time  it  shut 
ad   Miss   Middleton.     She  was   highly  flushed.     Seeing 
i,   Bhe   -hook    the  storm   from  her  brows,   with  a  dead 
htm  besl  piece  of  serenity  she  could  put  on  for  public 

r. 
She  I  breath  before  she  moved. 

Vernoi  e  onl  of  t  he  hoi 

1  pi  up  to  La  t it  ia. 

e  hard  sol>  of  ang(  r  barred  her  voice. 

L  !  her  to  to  her  room  with  her. 

'"  I  bair:  1  musl  be  by  myself,"  said  Clara,  catching 

at  her  garden-hat. 

She  walked  Bwif  try  to  the  portico-steps  and  turned  to  the 
i        .to  avoid  the  laboratory  windows. 


TEE  COMIC  MUSE  ON  TWO  GOOD  SOULS.  321 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

IN  WHICH  THE  COMIC  MUSE  HAS  AN  EYE  ON  TWO  GOOD  SOULS. 

Clara   met   Vernon   on    the    bowling-green    among    the 
laurels.     She  asked  him  where  her  father  was. 
"  Don't  speak  to  him  now,"  said  Vernon. 
"  Mr.  Whitford,  will  yon  ?" 
"It  is  not  adviseable  just  now.     Wait." 
"  Wait  ?     Why  not  now  ?" 
"  He  is  not  in  the  right  humour." 

She  choked.  There  are  times  when  there  is  no  medicine 
for  us  in  sages,  we  want  slaves  ;  we  scorn  to  temporize,  we 
must  overbear.  On  she  sped,  as  if  she  had  made  the  mis- 
take of  exchanging  words  with  a  post. 

The  scene  between  herself  and  Willoughby  was  a  thick 
mist  in  her  head,  except  the  burden  and  result  of  it,  that  he 
held  to  her  fast,  would  neither  assist  her  to  depart  nor  dis- 
engage her. 

Oh,  men  !  men !     They  astounded  the  girl ;  she  could  not 
define  them  to  her  understanding.       Their   motives,   their 
tastes,  their  vanity,  their  tyranny,  and  the  domino  on  their 
vanity,  the  baldness  of  their  tyranny,  clenched  her  in  femi- 
nine antagonism  to  brute  power.       She  was    not  the    less 
disposed  to  rebellion  by  a  very  present  sense  of  the  justice 
of  what  could  be  said  to  reprove  her.     She  had  but   one 
answer:  '  Anything  but  marry  him  !'     It  threw  her  on  her 
nature,  our  last  and  headlong  advocate,  who  is  quick  as  the 
flood  to  hurry  us  from  the  heights  to  our  level,  and   lower, 
if  there  be  accidental  gaps  in  the  channel.     For  say  we  have 
been  guilty  of  misconduct :  can  we  redeem  it  by  violating 
that  which  we   are  and   live  by  ?      The  question  sinks   us 
back  to  the   luxuriousness    of    a    sunny   relinquishment    of 
effort  in  the   direction   against  tide.     Our  nature  becomes 
ingenious   in  devices,  penetrative  of  the  enemy,  confidently 
citing  its  cause  for  being  frankly   elvish  or  worse.     Clara 
saw  a  particular  way  of  forcing  herself  to  be  surrendered. 
She  shut  her  eyes  from  it :  the  sight   carried  her  too   vio- 
lently to  her  escape :  but  her  heart  caught  it  up  and  huz- 
zaed.    To  press  the   points  of  her  fingers    at    her   bosom, 

v 


322  thk  egoist. 

ing  np  to  the  sky  as  Bhe  did,  and  cry,  'I  am  not  my 
own-  I  am  his!'  waa  instigation  sufficient  to  make  her 
]  earl  leap  up  with  all  her  body's  blush  to  urge  it  to  reck- 
lessness. A  despairing  creature  then  may  say  she  has 
addressed  the  heavens  and  has  had  no  answer  to  restrain 
her. 

Happily  for  Miss  Middleton  she  had  walked  some  minutes 
in  her  chafing  lit  before  the  falcon-eye  of  Colonel  De  Craye 
spied  her  away  on  one  of  the  beech-knolls. 

Vernon  stood  irresolute.      It  was  decidedly  not  a  moment 
for  disturbing   Dr.   Middleton's  composure.     He  meditated 
upon    a   conversation,    as   friendly   as  possible,    with   Wil- 
loughby.      Hound  on  the  front-lawn   be  beheld  Willouerhby 
and    Dr.    Middleton  together,  the  latter  having  halted  to 
lend  attentive  ear  do  his  excellent  host.     Unnoticed  by  them 
disregarded,  Vernon  turned   hack   to  LaHitia,  and  saun- 
tered talking  with  her  of  things  current  for  as   long  as  he 
Id  endure  to  listen  to  praise  of  his  pnrc  self-abnegation ; 
proof  of   how   well  he  had  disguised  himself,  but  it  smacked 
unpleasantly  to  him.     His  humourous  intimacy  with   men's 
minds   likened    the    source  of    this   distaste  to   the   gallant 
all-or-nothing  of  the  gambler,  who  hates  the  little  when  he 
cannot   have    the    much,   and    would    rather    stalk   from   the 
tables  clean-picked  than  suffer  ruin  to  be  tickled  by  driblets 
the  glorious  fortune  he  has  played  for  and  lost.     If  we 
are  not  to  be  beloved,  spare  us  the  small  coin  of  compliments 
on    character:    especially   when    they  compliment  only   our 
ting       It    is    partly   endurcable   to    win   eulogy   for  our 
itely  fortitude  in  losing,  but  Laititia  was  unaware  that  he 
flung  away  a  stake;    so  she  could  not  praise  him   for  his 
merits. 

•  Willoughby    makes   the    pardoning   of  Crossjay   condi- 

d,"  "he  said,  '-and    the  person  pleading1  for  him  has  to 

•riant    the   terms.      How    could   you   imagine   Willoughby 

would    give    her    up!       How    could   he!       Who!  ....  He 

should,  is  easily  said,     i  was  no  witness  of  the  scene  between 

them   just  now.  bul    I    could    have    foretold    the  end   of  it;    I 

Id    almost    recount    the   passages.      The  consequence  is, 

thai  iepends  upon   the  amount  of  courage  she 

Dr    .Middle! on  won't  leave    Patterne  yet.     And 

ik  to  him  to-day.     And  she  is  by  nature 

iti<  nt,  and  is  rendered  desperate." 


THE  COMIC  MUSE  ON  TWO  GOOD  SOULS.  323 

"  Why  is  it  of  no  use  to  speak  to  Dr.  Middleton  to-day  ?*' 
said  Lretitia. 

"  He  drank  wine  yesterday  that  did  not  agree  with  him  ; 
he  can't  work.  To-day  he  is  looking  forward  to  Pattern* 
Port.  He  is  not  likely  to  listen  to  any  proposals  to  leave 
to-day." 

"  Goodness  !" 

"  I  know  the  depth  of  that  cry  !" 
"  You  are  excluded,  Mr.  Whitford." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  I  am  in  with  the  rest.  Say  that  men 
are  to  be  exclaimed  at.  Men  have  a  right  to  expect  you  to 
know  your  own  mind  when  you  close  on  a  bargain.  You 
don't  know  the  world  or  yourselves  very  Avell,  it's  true  ;  still 
the  original  error  is  on  your  side,  and  upon  that  you  should 
fix  your  attention.  She  brought  her  father  here,  and  no 
sooner  was  he  very  comfortably  established  than  she  wished 
to  dislocate  him." 

"  I  cannot  explain  it ;  I  cannot  comprehend  it,"  said 
La?titia. 

"  You  are  Constancy." 

"  No."  She  coloured.  "  I  am  '  in  with  the  rest.'  I  do 
not  say  I  should  have  done  the  same.  But  I  have  the 
knowledge  that  I  must  not  sit  in  judgement  on  her.  I  can 
waver." 

She  coloured  again.      She  was   anxious  that  he  should 
know  her  to  be  not  that  stupid   statue  of  Constancy  in  a 
corner  doting  on  the  antic  Deception.     Reminiscences  of  the 
interview  overnight  made  it  oppressive  to  her  to  hear  herself 
praised  for  always  pointing  like  the  needle.      Her  newly 
enfranchised  individuality  pressed  to  assert  its  existence. 
Vernon,  however,  not  seeing  this  novelty,  continued,  to  her 
excessive  discomfort,  to  baste  her  old  abandoned  image  with 
his  praises.      They   checked    hers ;    and    moreover    he    had 
suddenly  conceived  an  envy  of  her  life-long,  uncomplaining, 
almost  unaspiring,  constancy   of  sentiment.      If  you  know 
lovers  when  they  have  not  reason  to  "be  blissful,  you  will 
remember  that    in    this    mood  of    admiring  envy  they   are 
given  to  fits  of  uncontrollable  maundering.     Praise  of  con- 
stancy,   moreover,    smote    shadowily    a    certain    inconstant, 
enough  to  seem  to  ruffle  her  smoothness  and  do  no  hurt.     He 
found  his  consolation  in  it,  and  poor  Laititia  writhed    Without 

t2 


324  TTIi:  EGOIST. 

/niti'.'  •  ■.  sin-  inst iiiii-. ■!•];.  grasped  at  ;i  weapon  of 

oce  in  farther  exalting  his  devotedness ;  which  reduced 

him  to  cast    his  head  to  the  heavens  and  implore  them  to 

tially  enlighten  her.     Nevertheless,  maunder  he  must; 

andhe  recurred  to  it  in  a  way  bo  utterly  unlike  himself  that 

I.  ntared   in  his  face.     She  wondered   whether  there 

o  aything  '1  behind  thi>  everlasting  theme  of 

constancy.     He  took   her  awakened  gaze  for  a  summons  to 

derations  of  sincerity,  and  oul  they  came.     She  would 

have  fled  from   him,  but  to  think  of  flying  was  to  think  how 

b  it  was  that    urged  her  to  fly,  and  yet  the  thought  of 

ind  listening  to  praises  undeserved  and  no  longer 

.•.  as  a  tort  ore. 

"  Mr.  Whitford,  I  bear  no  comparison  with  you." 

yon  for  my  example,  Miss  Dale." 
"  [ndeed  you  <h>  wrongly;  you  do  not  know  me." 
"  I  could  say  thai       For  years  !...." 

[r.  Whitford  !"  * 
'Well,!  have  admired  it.      You  show  us  how  self  can  be 
Bmol  hen  d." 

'■  A  iM  be  a  retort  on  you  !" 

•      I  am  never  thinking  of  anything  else." 
"  1  conld  Bay  that." 
M  "i  rily  conscious  of  not  Bwervinc." 

•  Bui  I  do;  I  waver  dreadfully ;  J  am  not  the  same  two 
i 

the  aame,  with  'ravishing  divisions '  upon  the 

•  And  yon  without  the  •divisions.'     1  draw  such  support 
as  1 1 

'Prom  -  mulacrnm  of   me,   then.      And  that   will 

on  require  support." 
*'  •  do  ii'  '  own  opinion  only  " 

"  I  am  no! 

a  let  m<  I  wish  I  were  like  you!" 

"Then     lei  Id,    J    would   willingly  make   the    ex- 

chai 


••  y.i  wonld  be  amazed  al  your  bargain" 

re  would  1, 

•  would  give  me  the  qualities  I  am  in  want 
of,  Miss  1  'ale." 


THE  COMIC  MUSE  ON  TWO  GOOD  SOULS.  325 

"  Negative,  passive,  at  the  best,  Mr.  Whitford.  But  1 
should  have  .   .   .  ." 

"  Oh  ! — pardon  me.  But  you  inflict  the  sensations  of  a 
boy,  with  a  dose  of  honesty  in  him,  called  up  to  receive  a 
prize  he  has  won  by  the  dexterous  use  of  a  crib." 

"  And  how  do  you  suppose  she  feels,  who  has  a  crown  of 
Queen  o'  the  May  forced  on  her  head  when  she  is  verging  on 
November  ?" 

He  rejected  her  analog}7,  and  she  his.  They  could  neither 
of  them  bring  to  light  the  circumstances  which  made  one 
another's  admiration  so  unbearable.  The  more  he  exalted 
her  for  constancy,  the  more  did  her  mind  become  bent  upon 
critically  examining  the  object  of  that  imagined  virtue;  and 
the  more  she  praised  him  for  possessing  the  spirit  of  perfect 
friendliness,  the  fiercer  grew  the  passion  in  him  which  dis- 
dained the  imputation,  hissing  like  a  heated  iron-bar  that 
flings  the  water-drops  to  steam.  He  would  none  of  it : 
"would  rather  have  stood  exposed  in  his  profound  foolishness. 

Amiable  though  they  were,  and  mutually  affectionate,  they 
came  to  a  stop  in  their  walk,  longing  to  separate,  and  not 
seeing  how  it  was  to  be  done,  they  had  so  knit  themselves 
together  with  the  pelting  of  their  interlaudation. 

"  I  think  it  is  time  for  me  to  run  home  to  my  father  for  an 
hour,"  said  Laetitia. 

"  I  ought  to  be  working,"  said  Vernon. 

Good  progress  was  made  to  the  disgarlanding  of  them- 
selves thus  far;  yet,  an  acutely  civilized  pair,  the  abrupt- 
ness of  the  transition  from  floweriness  to  commonplace 
affected  them  both,  Laetitia  chiefly,  as  she  had  broken  the 
pause,  and  she  remarked, 

"  I  am  really  Constancy  in  my  opinions." 

"  Another  title  is  customary  where  stiff  opinions  are  con- 
cerned. Perhaps  by-and-by  you  will  learn  your  mistake, 
and  then  you  will  acknowledge  the  name  for  it." 

"  How  ?"  said  she.     "  What  shall  I  learn  ?" 

"  If  you  learn  that  I  am  a  grisly  Egoist  ?" 

"  You  ?  And  it  would  not  be  egoism,"  added  Laetitia, 
revealing  to  him  at  the  same  instant  as  to  herself,  that  she 
swung  suspended  on  a  scarce  credible  guess. 

" — Will  nothing  pierce  your  ears,  Mr.  Whitford  ?" 

He  heard  the  intruding  voice,  but  he  was  bent  on  rubbing 
out  the  cloudy  letters  Laetitia  had  begun  to  spell,  and  ho 


11IK  EGOIST. 

in  n  tone  of  matter-of-fact:  "Just  that  and  no 
I  then  turned  to  Mrs.  Mountstuart  Jenkinson. 

Or  a  3olved  yon   will    never   Bee    Professor 

I       .kiwi  when  you  look  on  bim  P"  said  the  great  lady. 

Vernon  bowed  to  the  professor  and  apologized  to  him 
shufflingly  and  rapidly,  incoherently,  and  with  a  red  face; 
winch  induced  Mrs.  Mountstuart  to  scan  Letitia's. 

ter  lecturing  Vernon  for  his  abandonment  of  her  yester- 

aing,  and  flouting  liis  protestations,  she  returned  to 

the  bnsini  ss  of  the  day.     "  We  walked  from  the  lodge-gates 

the   park   and  prepare  otirselves  for  Dr.  Middleton. 

\\«    :  irted  last  night  in  the  middle  of  a  controversy  and 

are  some  it.     Where  is  our  redoubtable  anta- 

■" 

Mrs.   Mountstnart   wheeled  Professor  Crooklyn  round  to 

impany  Ven  on. 
"We,"  b!  for  modern   English  scholarship, 

opposed  to  the  champion  of  German." 

"  The  contrary,"  observed  Professor  Crooklyn. 
u Oh.     We,"  Bhe  corrected   the  error  serenely,  "are  for 
i  bolarship,  opposed  to  English." 

"  \''  tain  editions." 

14  Del  a  term  of  impel  feci  application  to  my  posil 

■  Mj  dear  ]  •  on  have  in  Dr.  Middleton  a  mat  h 

is  pugnacity,  and  you  will  no1  «;i 
npon  me.    There,  there  they  arc-,  there  he  is.    Mr.  Whitford 
:  cond  ;i.l  away  from  the  first  shuck." 

Mi  11  back  to  Laetitia,  saying :  "He  pores 

tude  in  phrases,  and  pecks  at  it  like  a 
I." 
Pri  I  attitude  and   air  were  so  well  de- 

'■I  have  laughed. 

lTh<  nave   theii    flavour,"  the  great 

ladj  Id,  lest  her  younger  companion  should  be 

that  tl  ool   valuable  to  a  Lro\  ern- 

shadow  -fights  are  ridiculous,  but   they 

>ur  at  a  table       i      t  night,  no:  1  discard  all 

»i    night.      We   failed:    as   none  else   in    this 

•nl 1  could  fail,  b  I.     [f  we  have  among 

ub  a  cormorant  devouring  young  lady  who  drinks  up  all  the 


THE  COMIC  MUSE  ON  TWO  GOOD  SOULS.  327 

— ha ! — brandy  and  water — of  our  inns  and  occupies  all  our 
flys,  why,  our  condition  is  abnormal,  and  Ave  must  expect  to 
fail :  we  are  deprived  of  accommodation  for  accidental  cir- 
cumstances. How  Mr.  Wbitford  could  have  missed  seeing 
Professor  Crooklyn!  And  what  was  he  doing  at  the  station, 
Miss  Dale  ?" 

"  Your  portrait  of  Professor  Crooklyn  was  too  striking, 
Mrs.  Mountstuart,  and  deceived  him  by  its  excellence.  He 
appears  to  have  seen  only  the  blank  side  of  the  slate." 

"  Ah.  He  is  a  faithful  friend  of  his  cousin,  do  you  nnt 
think  ?" 

"  He  is  the  truest  of  friends." 

"  As  for  Dr.  Middleton,"  Mrs.  Mountstuart  diverged  from 
her  inquiry,  "he  will  swell  the  letters  of  my  vocabulary 
to  gigantic  proportions  if  I  see  much  of  him  :  he  is  con- 
tagious." 

"  I  believe  it  is  a  form  of  his  humour." 

"  I  caught  it  of  him  yesterday  at  my  dinner  table  in  my 
distress,  and  must  pass  it  off  as  a  form  of  mine,  while  it 
lasts.  I  talked  Dr.  Middleton  half  the  dreary  night  through 
to  my  pillow.  Your  candid  opinion,  my  dear,  come  !  As  fur 
me,  I  don't  hesitate.  We  seemed  to  have  sat  down  to  a 
solitary  performance  on  the  bass-viol.  We  were  positively 
an  assembly  of  insects  during  thunder.  My  very  soul 
thanked  Colonel  De  Craye  for  his  diversions,  but  I  heard 
nothing  but  Dr.  Middleton.  It  struck  me  that  my  table  was 
petrified,  and  every  one  sat  listening  to  bowls  played  over- 
head." 

"  I  was  amused." 

"Really?      You  delight  me.     Who  knows  but  that 
guests  were  sincere  in  their  congratulations  on  a  thorou_ 
successful  evening?     I  have  fallen  to  this,  you  see  !      A 
know,  wretched  people!  that  as  often  as  not  it  is  their 
of  condoling  with  one.     I  do  it  myself:  but  only  where  I 
have    been    amiable   efforts.      But   imagine    my    being    con- 
gratulated for  that ! — Good  morning.  Sir  Willoughby. — The 
worst  offender!  and  I  am  in  no  pleasant  mood  with  him," 
Mrs.    Mountstuart   said  aside   to   Lastitia,   who  drew   back, 
retiring. 

Sir  Willoughby  came  on  a  step  or  two.     He  stopped  to 
watch  Lastitia's  figure  swimming  to  the  house. 

So,  as,  for  instance,  beside  a  stream,  when  a  flower  on  the 


o 


28  THE  EGOIST. 


surface  extends  its  petals  di owning-  to  subside  in  the  clear 
pt ill  wat  exercise  our  privilege  to  be  absent  in  the 

charmed  contemplation  of  a  beautiful  natural  incident. 
A  smile  of  pleased  abstraction  melted  on  his  feature3. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

1TRS.  MOTJOTSTUABT  AND  SIR  WILLOUGHBY. 

"GOOD  morning,   my   dear  Mrs.    Mountstuart,"  Sir  Wil- 
_-hb\-  waki  tied  himself  to  address  the  great  lady.     ""Why 

'•  J  [as  any  one  fled  ?" 
"  La  titia  Dale." 

"Letty  Dale?  Oh!  if  you  call  that  flyinsr.  Possibly  to 
renew  a  close  conversation  with  Vernon  Whitford,  that  I 
cut  Bhort.  You  frightened  me  with  your  '  Shepherds-tell- 
me  '  air  and  tone.  Lead  rue  to  one  of  your  garden-seats: 
of  !i<  aring  to  Dr.  Middleton,  I  beg.  He  mesmerizes  me, 
he  maki  talk   Latin.     1    was  curiously  susceptible  last 

night.     I  know  I  shall  everlastingly  associate  him  with  an 
five  entertainment  and  solos  on  big  instruments.     We 
t 
'"  I '  in  good  vein." 

"  Yon  were  not." 

Miss  Dale  talked  well,  I  thoncrht." 
with  yon,  and  no  doubt  she  talked  well.     We 
did  not  mix.    The  yei  bad.    You  shot  darts  at  Colonel 

you  tried  testing.     Yon  brought  Dr.  Middleton 
down  on  you.     Dear  me,  that  man  is  a  reverberation  in  my 
i.     Where  is  vour  lady  and  love?" 
-  Who  • 

Vm  I  to  name  her 

•      I    have  not  seen  her  for  the  last  hour.     Wan. 
deririq-,  I  suppose." 

A    very   pretty  summer-bower,"  said   Mrs.  Mountstuart, 

self.     "Well,  my  dear  Sir  Willoughby,  prefer- 

snees.  preferer.  not  to  be  accounted  tor.  and  one  never 


MRS    MOUNTSTUART  AND  SIR  WILLOUGHBY.  32U 

knows   whether   to    pity    or   congratulate,    whatever    may 
occur.     I  want  to  see  Miss  Middleton." 

'  Your  '  dainty  rogue  in  porcelain  '  will  be  at  your  beck — 
you  lunch  with  us  ? — before  you  leave." 

"  So  now  you  have  taken  to  quoting  me,  have  you  ?" 

"  But,  '  a  romantic  tale  on  her  eyelashes,'  is  hardly  de- 
scriptive any  longer." 

"  Descriptive  of  whom  ?  Now  you  are  upon  Lastitia 
Dale!"  J  1 

"  I  quote  you  generally.     She  has  now  a  graver  look." 

"  And  weil  may  have  !" 

•*  Not  that  the  romance  has  entirely  disappeared." 

"  No :  it  looks  as  if  it  were  in  print." 

"  You  have  hit  it  perfectly,  as  usual,  ma'am." 

Sir  Willoughby  mused. 

Like  one  resuming  his  instrument  to  take  up  the  melody 
in  a  concerted  piece,  he  said  :  "  I  thought  Lastitia  Dale  had 
a  singularly  animated  air  last  night." 

"  Why  ! "  Mrs.  Mount.stuart  mildly  gaped. 

"  I  want  a  new  description  of  her.  You  know,  I  collect 
your  mottoes  and  sentences." 

'  It  seems  to  me  she  is  coming  three  parts  out  of  her 
shell,  and  wearing  it  as  a  hood  for  convenience." 

"  Ready  to  issue  forth  at  an  invitation  ?  Admirable ! 
exact!" 

"  Ay,  my  good  Sir  "Willoughby,  but  are  we  so  very  admir- 
able and  exact  ?     Are  we  never  to  know  our  own  minds  r" 

He  produced  a  polysyllabic  sigh,  like  those  many-jointed 
compounds  of  poets  in  happy  languages,  wbich  are  copious 
in  a  single  expression :  "  Mine  is  known  to  me.  It  always 
has  been.  Cleverness  in  women  is  not  uncommon.  Intel- 
lect is  the  pearl.  A  woman  of  intellect  is  as  good  as  a  Greek 
statue ;  she  is  divinely  wrought,  and  she  is  divinely  rare." 

'  Proceed,"  said  the  lady,  confiding  a  cough  to  the  air. 

"The  rarity  of  it: — and  it  is  not  mere  intellect,  it  is  a 
sympathetic  intellect;  or  else  it  is  an  intellect  in  perfect 
accord  with  an  intensely  sympathetic  disposition  ; — the 
rarity  of  it  makes  it  too  precious  to  be  parted  with  when 
once  we  have  met  it.  I  prize  it  the  more  the  older  I 
grow." 

"  Are  we  on  the  feminine  or  the  neuter  ?'* 

*'  I  beof  pardon  ?" 


THE  EGOIST. 

"  Tim  universal  or  flip  individual  P" 

He  shrugged.  "  For  (In1  rest,  ]>sveholo:rioal  affinities  may 
r\i-t  coincident  with  and  entirely  independent  of  material  or 
moral  prepi  ,  relatioi  agements,  ties." 

"Well,  thai   is  no!    the  raving  of   passion,  certainly,"  said 

Mr-.  .Mount -mart,  "  and  it  sounds  as  if  it  were  a  comfortable 

rine  for  nan.     On  that  plea,  you  might  all  of  you   be 

og  Aspasia    ami  a  wife.     We  saw  your  fair  Middleton 

and  Colonel  De  Craye  at  a  distance  as  we  entered  the  park. 

Profe    or  Crooklyn  is  under  some  hallucination." 

•■  W  hat  more  likely  ?" 

The  readiness  and  the  double-bearing  of  the  reply  struck 
her  <•  >mic  sense  with  awe. 

•■  Tlir   professor  must  hear  that.     He  insists  on  the  fly, 
and   the  inn,  and  the  wet   boots,  and  the  warming  mixture, 
the  testimony  of  the  landlady  and  the  railway  porter." 
"  I  say,  what  more  likely  r" 
"Than  that  he  should  insist?" 
"  It'  he  is  under  the  hallucination!" 
u  !!••  may  convince  others." 
'*  1  i  a\  <•  only  to  repeat !...." 
'What    more   likely?'       It's     extremely     philosophical. 
(  with  a  pursuit  of  the  psychological  affinities." 

"Pro  Crooklyn  will  hardly  descend,  1   suppose,  from 

A   altitudes  to   lay  his   hallucinations  before  Dr. 
ton?" 
Willoughby,  ynu  are  the  pink  of  chivalry  !" 
I',     harping  on    Loctitia,  he    had  emboldened   Mrs.  Mount- 
•iie  curtain   upon  Clara.     It  was  oiVensive  to 
him,  but  the  injury  don,,   to  his  pride  had  to  be  endured  for 
t  ral  plan  of  self-protection. 

ply   d'  nests   from  annoyance  of 

kind,"  he   said.      "Dr.   Middleton   can  look  'Olympus 
and  thunder,'  a-  Vernon  rails  it." 

1  mi.     That  look!    It  is  Dictionary — bitten! 

gry,  homed  Diet  -an  apparation  of  Dictionary  in 

;e !" 
"  l  "  ■■  would  andergo  a  good  deal  to  avoid  the  sight." 
'  W    at  tin'  man  must  be  in  a  storm!     Speak  as  you  please 
self:  you  are  a  true  and  chivalrous  knight  to  dread 
]     Eor    her.     But   now  candidly,  how   is  it  you   cannot  con- 
to  a    little   management?     Listen  to  an  old  friend. 


MRS.   MOUNTSTUAET  AND  SIR  WILLOUGHBY.  331 

Yon  are  too  lordly.  No  lover  can  afford  to  be  incompre- 
hensible for  half  an  hour.  Stoop  a  little.  Sermonizings 
are  not  to  be  thought  of.  You  can  govern  unseen.  You  are 
to  know  that  I  am  one  who  disbelieves  in  philosophy  in  love. 
I  admire  the  look  of  it,  I  give  no  credit  to  the  assumption. 
I  rather  like  lovers  to  be  out  at  times :  it  makes  them 
picturesque,  and  it  enlivens  their  monotony.  I  perceived 
she  had  a  spot  of  wildness.  It's  proper  that  she  should  wear 
it  off  before  marriage." 

"  Clara  ?  The  wildness  of  an  infant !"  said  Willoughby 
paternally  musing  over  an  inward  shiver.  "  You  saw  her  at 
a  distance  just  now,  or  you  might  have  heard  her  laughing. 
Horace  diverts  her  excessively." 

"  I  owe  him  my  eternal  gratitude  for  his  behaviour  last 
night.  She  was  one  of  my  bright  faces.  Her  laughter  was 
delicious  ;  rain  in  the  desert !  It  will  tell  you  what  the  load 
on  me  was,  when  I  assure  you  those  two  were  merely  a 
spectacle  to  me — points  I  scored  in  a  lost  game.  And  I 
know  they  were  witty." 

"  They  both  have  wit ;  a  kind  of  wit,"  Willoughby 
assented. 

"  They  struck  together  like  a  pair  of  cymbals." 

"  Not  the  highest  description  of  instrument.  However, 
they  amuse  me.  I  like  to  hear  them  when  I  am  in  the 
vein." 

"  That  vein  should  be  more  at  command  with  you,  my 
friend.     You  can  be  perfect,  if  you  like." 

"  Under  your  tuition." 

Willoughby  leaned  to  her,  bowing  languidly.  He  was 
easier  in  his  pain  for  having  hoodwinked  the  lady.  She 
was  the  outer  world  to  him  :  she  could  tune  the  world's 
voice  ;  prescribe  which  of  the  two  was  to  be  pitied,  himself 
or  Clara ;  and  he  did  not  intend  it  to  be  himself,  if  it  came 
to  the  worst. 

They  were  far  away  from  that  at  present,  and  he  con- 
tinned  :  "  Probably  a  man's  power  of  putting  on  a  face  is  not 
equal  to  a  girl's.  I  detest  petty  dissensions.  Probably  I 
show  it  when  all  is  not  quite  smooth.  Little  fits  of  suspicion 
vex  me.  It  is  a  weakness,  not  to  play  them  off,  I  know. 
Men  have  to  learn  the  arts  which  come  to  women  by  nature. 
I  don't  sympathize  with  suspicion,  from  having  none  my. 


'X'rl  Tin:  EGOIST. 

His  eyebrows  shot  up.  That  ill-omened  man  Flitch  had 
■idled  round  by  the  bushes  to  within  a  few  feet  of  him. 

Flitch  primarily  defended  himself  against  the  accusation 
of  drunkenness,  which  was  hurled  at  him  to  account  for  his 
audacity  in  trespassing  against  the  interdict :  but  he  admitted 
that  he  had  taken  'something  short'  for  a  fortification  in 
visiting  wit  ere  he  had  once  been  happy — at  Christ- 

mast  ide,  when  ail  the  servants,  and  the  butler  at  head,  gray 
ohl  Mr.  Chessington,  sat  in  rows,  toasting  the  young  heir  of 
the  old  Hall  in  the  old  port  wine!  Happy  had  he  been 
;.  before  ambition  for  a  shop,  to  be  his  own  master  and 
an  independent  gentleman,  had  led  him  into  his  quagmire: 
— to  look  back  envying  a  dog  on  the  old  estate,  and  sigh  for 
the  smell  of  Patterne  stables:  sweeter  than  Arabia,  his 
drooping  nose  appeared  to  say. 

Beheld  up  close  againsi  it  something  that  imposed  si  vice 
on  Sir  Willoughby  as  effectually  as  a  cunning  exordium  in 
oratory  will  enchain  mobs  to  swallow  what  is  not  compli- 
menting  them  :  and  this  be  displayed  secure  in  its  being  his 
license  to  drivel  his  abominable  pathos.  Sir  Willoughby 
i  gnized  Clara's  purse.  He  understood  at  once  how  the 
man  must  have  come  by  it :  he  was  not  so  quick  in  devising 
si  means  of  stopping  the  tale.  Flitch  foiled  him.  "Intact," 
he  replied  to  the  question:  "What  have  you  there?"  He 
i  this  grand  word.  And  then  he  turned  to  ^Irs. 
Mountstuarl  to  speak  of  Paradise  and  Adam,  in  whom  he 
the  prototype  of  himself:  also  the  Hebrew  people  in  the 
I  pt,  discoursed  of  by  the  clergymen,  not  with- 

out al;l  to  him. 

ivc  done  me  one  good,  to  send  me  attentive  to 

■  1:.  niv  lady,"  said  Flitch.  "  when  I  might  have  gone  to 

I       don,  the  coachman's  home,  and  been  dri\  ing  some  honour- 

jihle  family,  with  no  gr<  al  advantage  to  my  morals,  according 

hat  I  bear  of .     And  a  purse  found  under  the  scat  of  a 

fly  in  London  would  have  a  poor  chance  of  returning  intact 

oung  lady  losing  it." 

■  Put   it  down  on  that  chair  ;  inquiries  will  be  made,  and 

will  see  Sir  Willoughby,"  said  Mrs.  Mountstuart.     "In- 

no  doubt  :  it  is  not  disputed." 

With   one  motion  of  a  hager  -he  set  the  man  rounding. 

h  halted:   he  was  xevy  regretful  of  the  termination  of 

'  ■  '   of  pathos,  and  he  wished  to  relate  the  iinding  of 


MRS.  sIOUNTSTUART  AND  SIR  WILLOUGHBY.  333 

the  purse,  but  lie  could  not  encounter  Mrs.  Mountstn art's 
look  -.  he  slouched  away  in  very  close  resemblance  to  the 
ejected  Adam  of  illustrated  books. 

"  It's  my  belief  that  naturalness  among  the  common  people 
has  died  out  of  the  kingdom,"  she  said. 

Willoughby  charitably  apologized  for  him.  "  He  has  been 
fuddling  himself." 

Her  vigilant  considerateness  had  dealt  the  sensitive  gen- 
tleman a  shock,  plainly  telling  him  she  had  her  ideas  of  his 
actual  posture.  Nor  was  he  unhurt  by  her  superior  acute- 
ness  and  her  display  of  authority  on  his  grounds. 

He  said  boldly,  as  he  weighed  the  purse,  half  tossing  it : 
"  It's  not  unlike  Clara's." 

He  feared  that  his  lips  and  cheeks  were  twitching,  and  as 
he  grew  aware  of  a  glassiness  of  aspect  that  would  reflect 
any  suspicion  of  a  keen-eyed  woman,  he  became  bolder 
still :  "  Las titia's,  I  know  it  is  not.  Hers  is  an  ancient 
purse." 

"  A  present  from  you  !" 

"  How  do  you  hit  on  that,  my  dear  lady  ?" 
"  Deductively." 

"  "Well,  the  purse  looks  as  good  as  new  in  quality,  like  the 
owner." 

"  The  poor  dear  has  not  much  occasion  for  using  it." 
"  You  are  mistaken  :  she  uses  it  daily." 
"  If  it  were  better  filled,  Sir  Willoughby,  your  old  scheme 
might  be  arranged.    The  parties  do  not  appear  so  unwilling. 
Professor  Crooklyn  and  I  came  on  them  just  now  rather  by 
surprise,  and   I    assure  you  their  heads   were   close,  faces 
meeting,  eyes  musing." 
"  Impossible." 

"  Because  when  they  approach  the  point,  you  won't  allow 
it!     Selfish!" 

"  Now/'  said  Willoughby,  very  animatedly,  "  question 
Clara.  Now,  do,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mountstuart,  do  sp;  ak  to 
Clara  on  that  head;  she  will  convince  you  I  have  striven 
quite  recently: — against  myself,  if  you  like.  I  have  in- 
structed her  to  aid  me,  given  her  the  fullest  instructions, 
carte  blanche.  She  cannot  possibly  have  a  doubt.  1  may 
look  to  her  to  remove  any  you  may  entertain  from  your  mind 
on  the  subject.  I  have  proposed,  seconded  and  chorussed  it, 
and  it  will  not  be  arranged.     If  you  expect  me  to  deplore 


■',.  '■  I  HIE  EGOIST. 

i  •  fact,  T  can  only  answer  that  my  actions  are  under  my 
control,  in  v  feelings  are  not.  I  will  do  everything  consistent 
with  the  duties  of  a  man  of  honour — perpetually  running 
ii:tn  fatal  errors  because  he  did  not  properly  consult  the 
dictates  of  those  feelings  at  the  right  season.  I  can  violate 
them:  but  I  can  no  more  command  them  than  I  can  my 
destiny.  They  were  crashed  of  old,  and  so  let  them  be  now. 
Sentiments,  we  won't  discuss;  though  you  know  that  senti- 
ments  have  a  hearing  on  social  life:  are  factors,  as  they  say 
in  their  later  jargon.  I  never  speak  of  mine.  To  you  I 
could.  It  is  not  necessary.  If  old  Vernon,  instead  of  flat- 
ten i  t  i  lt  his  chest  at  a  desk  had  any  manly  ambition  to  take 
part  in  public  affairs,  she  would  be  the  woman  for  him.  I 
have  called  her  my  Egeria.  She  would  be  his  Cornelia. 
One  could  swear  of  her  that  she  would  have  noble  offspring! 
-  But  old  Vernon  has  had  his  disappointment,  and  will 
moan  over  it  up  to  the  end.  And  she?  So  it  appears.  I 
have  tried;  yes,  personally :  without  effect.  In  other  mat- 
l  may  have  influence  with  her:  not  in  that  one.  She 
declines.  She  will  live  and  die  La?titia  Dale.  We  are 
alone:  I  confess  to  you,  I  love  the  name.  It's  an  old  song 
in  my  ears.  Do  not  be  too  ready  with  a  name  for  me. 
B  i    me—  T  speak    from  my  experience  hitherto — there  is 

a  fatality  in  these  things.     I  cannot  conceal  from  my  poor 
girl  thai   this  fatality  exists   .   .    .   ." 

'  Which  is  the  poor  girl  at  present':"'  said  Mrs.  Mount- 
Btnart,  cool  in  a  mystification. 

I   though  she  will  tell   you  that  I  have  authorized 

Clara  Middleton — done  as  much  as  man  can  to  insti- 

the  union  you  Bn  she  will  own   that  she  is   con- 

•  i  the  presence  of  this— fatality,  I  call  it  for  want  of 

tter  title     between  us.     It  drives  her  in  one  direction, 

me    in   another— or  would,  if  I   submitted  to  the  pressure. 

i-  not  the  first  who  has  been  conscious  of  it." 

'•  Are   we   laying   hold  of  a  third  poor  girl  Y"  said  Mrs. 

Monntstnart.      "Ah!    I   remember.     And  I  remember   we 

i    to  call   it  playing  fast   and  loose    in  those  days,    n  it 

fatality.       It     is    very    strange.     It    may  be  that  you   were 

unblnshingly  courted  in  those  days,  and  excuseable :  and  we 

all  supposed  ....  but  away  you  went  for  your  tour." 

'My  mother's  medical  receipt  for  me.     Partially  It  suc- 
ceeded.     She  was   for  ^rand    marriages:     not  I.      I  could 


MT?S.  MOUNTSTUART  AND  SIR  WILLOUGOBT.  335 

make,  1  could  not  be,  a  sacrifice.  And  then  I  went  in  due 
time  to  Dr.  Cupid  on  my  own  account.  She  has  the  kind 
of  attraction  ....  Bat  one  changes  !  On  revient  toujours. 
First  we  begin  with  a  liking  :  then  we  give  ourselves  up  to 
the  passion  for  beauty :  then  comes  the  serious  question  of 
suitableness  of  the  mate  to  match  us  :  and  perhaps  we 
discover  that  we  were  wiser  in  early  youth  than  somewhat 
later.  However,  she  has  beauty.  2u)w,  Mrs.  Mountstuart, 
you  do  admire  her.  Chase  the  idea  of  the  '  dainty  rogue  ' 
out  of  your  view  of  her :  you  admire  her :  she  is  capti- 
vating ;  she  has  a  particular  charm  of  her  own,  nay,  she  has 
real  beauty." 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  fronted  him  to  say  :  "  Upon  my  word, 
my  dear  Sir  Willoughby,  1  think  she  has  it  to  such  a  degree 
that  I  don't  know  the  man  who  could  hold  out   against  her 
if  she  took  the  field.     She  is  one  of  the   women  who  are 
dead   shots  with   men.      Whether  it's   in  their    tongues  or 
their  eyes,  or  it's  an  effusion  and   an  atmosphere — whatever 
it  is,  it's  a  spell,  another  fatality  for  you!" 
"Animal;  not  spiritual  !" 
"  Oh  !  she  hasn't  the  head  of  Letty  Dale." 
Sir  Willoughby  allowed  Mrs.  Mountstuart  to  pause  and 
follow  her  thoughts. 

"  Dear  me  !"  she  exclaimed.  *'  I  noticed  a  change  in  Letty 
Dale  last  night:  and  to-day.  She  looked  fresher  and 
younger;  extremely  well :  which  is  not  what  I  can  say  for 
you,  my  friend.  Fatalizing  is  not  good  for  the  complexion." 
"  Don't  take  away  my  health,  pray ;"  cried  Willoughby, 
with  a  snapping  laugh. 

"  Be  careful,"  said  Mrs.  Mountstuart.  "You  have  got  a 
sentimental  tone.  You  talk  of  '  feelings  crushed  of  old.' 
It  is  to  a  woman,  not  to  a  man  that  you  speak,  but  that  sort 
of  talk  is  a  way  of  making  the  ground  slippery.  I  listen  in 
vain  for  a  natural  tongue ;  and  when  1  don't  hear  it,  I 
suspect  plotting  in  men.  You  show  your  under-teeth  too  at 
times  when  you  draw  in  a  breath,  like  a  condemned  high- 
caste  Hindoo  my  husband  took  me  to  see  in  a  jail  in  Cal- 
cutta, to  give  me  some  excitement  when  I  was  pining  for 
England.  The  creature  did  it  regularly  as  he  breathed  ; 
you  did  it  last  night,  and  you  have  been  doing  it  to-day,  as 
if  the  air  cut  you  to  the  quick.  You  have  been  spoilt.  You 
have  been  too  much  anointed.     What  I've  just  mentioned  in 


THE  EfiOlST. 

n  with  me  of  a  settled  something  on  the  brain  of  a 
in. in  ' 

••  The  brain  r"  Baid  Sir  Willoughby,  frowning. 
"Yes,  y«>u   laugh  sourly,  to  look   at,"  said  she.     Mount- 
stuart  told  me  thai   the  muscles  of  the  mouth   betray   men 
er  than  the  eyes,  when  they  have  cause  to  be  uneasy  in 
r  minds." 
••  But,    ma'am,   T  shall   not  break  my  word;   I  shall  not, 
J  inten  I,  I  have  resolved  to  keep  it.     I  do  not   Eatalize, 
let  my  complexion  be  black  or  white.     Despite  my  resem- 
blance to  a  bigh-class  malefactor  of  the  Calcutta  prison- 
.... 
••  Friend  !  friend!  you  know  how  I  chatter." 
He  saluted  ber  6nger-ends.     "Despite  the  extraordinary 
display  of  teeth,  you  will  find  me  go  to  execution  with  per- 
il cl  calmneRS  ;  \\  ith  a  resignation  as  good  as  happiness." 
••  I.   :e  a  Jacobite  lord  under  the  Georges." 
"Ymi    bave  told   me  that   you   wept  to  read  of  one:  liko 
linn.  then.     My    principles    have   not   changed,   if   I  have. 
When  I  was  younger,  I  had  an  idea  of  a  wife  who  would  be 
with  me  in  my  thoughts  as  well  as  aims:  a  woman  with  a 
spirit  of    o  nance,  and  a  brain  of  solid  sense.     I  shall  sooner 
or  1  licate  myself  to  a  public  life;  and  shall,  I   sup- 

.  want  the  I  lor  or  comforter  who  ought  always  to 

•and  at  home.     It  may  be  unfortunate  that  I  have  the 
d    in    my    lead.       But     I    would    never    make    rigorous 
ir  specific  qualities.     The  cruellest   thing  in  the 
Id  is  to  si  t  up  a  li\imr  model  before  a  wife,  and  compel 
her  to  copy  it.     In  any  case,  here  we  are  upon  the  road  :  the 
I  sliall  not  reprieve  myself.     I   cannot  release 
■  represents  tacts,  courtship  fancies.     She  will 
nd-by  of  that  coveting  of  everything  that  I  do, 
ink,  dream,  imagine  ....  ta-ta-ta-ta  ad  infinitum. 

I.        •    .    was  invited  here   to  show   her  1  lie  example  of  a  fixed 

as  an;,  concrete  substance  you  would  choose 
Id  on,  and  not  a  whit  the  less  feminine." 
•Ta-ta-ta-ta  ad  infinitum.     You  need  not  tell  me  you  have 

_n  in  all  that  you  do.  Willoughby  Patterne." 
"  ^  ell  the  autocrat  F      5Tes,  he  can  mould  and  govern 

■  lit    him.      Hi-    toughest    rebel    is    himself! 
I        on   nee   Clara  .  .  .     You    wish   to  bee   her,   I  think   you 


MRS.  MOUNTSTUART  AND  SIR  WILLOUGHBY.  337 

"Her  behaviour  to  Lady  Busshe  last  night  was  queer." 

"  If  you  will.  She  makes  a  mouth  at  porcelain.  Toujours 
la  porcelaine !  For  me,  her  pettishness  is  one  of  her  charms, 
I  confess  it.  Ten  years  younger,  I  could  not  have  compared 
them." 

"  Whom  ?" 

"  Laetitia  and  Clara." 

"  Sir  Willoughby,  in  any  case,  to  quote  you,  here  we  are 
all  upon  the  road,  and  we  must  act  as  if  events  were  going 
to  happen  ;  and  I  must  ask  her  to  help  me  on  the  subject  of 
my  wedding-present,  for  I  don't  want  to  have  her  making 
mouths  at  mine,  however  pretty — and  she  does  it  prettily." 

"  k  Another  dedicatory  offering  to  the  rogue  in  me  !'  she 
says  of  porcelain." 

"  Then  porcelain  it  shall  not  be.  I  mean  to  consult  her; 
I  have  come  determined  upon  a  chat  with  her.  I  think  I 
understand.  But  she  produces  false  impressions  on  those 
who  don't  know  you  both.  '  I  shall  have  that  porcelain 
back,'  says  Lady  Busshe  to  me,  when  we  were  shaking  hands 
last  night :  '  I  think,'  says  she,  '  it  should  have  been  the 
Willow  Pattern.'  And  she  really  said :  '  he's  in  for  being 
jilted  a  second  time  !'  " 

Sir  Willoughby  restrained  a  bound  of  his  body  that  would 
have  sent  him  up  some  feet  into  the  air.  He  felt  his  skull 
thundered  at  within. 

"Rather  than  that  it  should  fall  upon  her!"  ejaculated 
he,  correcting  his  resemblance  to  the  high-caste  culprit  as 
soon  as  it  recurred  to  him. 

"  But  you  know  Lady  Busshe,"  said  Mrs.  Mountstuart, 
genuinely  solicitous  to  ease  the  proud  man  of  his  pain.  She 
could  see  through  him  to  the  depth  of  the  skin,  which  his 
fencing  sensitiveness  vainly  attempted  to  cover  as  it  did  the 
heart  of  him.  "  Lady  Busshe  is  nothing  without  her  nights, 
fads  and  fancies.  She  has  always  insisted  that  you  have  an 
unfortunate  nose.  I  remember  her  saying  on  the  day  of  your 
majority,  it  was  the  nose  of  a  monarch  destined  to  lose  a 
throne." 

"  Have  I  ever  offended  Lady  Busshe  ?" 
"  She  trumpets  you.     She  carries  Lady  Culmer  with  hei 
too,  and  you  may  expect  a  visit  of  nods  and  hints  and  pots 
of  alabaster.     They  worship  you :  you  are  the  hope  of  Eng- 
land in  their  eyes,  and  no  woman  is  worthy  of  you  :  but  they 

z 


TEE  EGOIST. 

are  a  pair  of  fatalists,  and  if  you  begin  upon  Letty  Dak 
wuli  thnii.  you  might  as  well  forbid  your  bauns.  They  will 
be  all   over  the  country  exclaiming  on  predestination  and 

triages  made  in  heav  en. 

•  Clara  and  her  father!"  cried  Sir  Willoughby. 

Dr.  Middleton  and  his  daughter  appeared  in  the  circle  of 

shrubs  mid  flowers. 

"  Bring  her  to  me,  and  save  me  from  the  polyglot,"  said 
Mrs.  Moiintstuart,  in  affright  at  Dr.  Middleton's  manner  of 
pouring  forth  into  the  ears  of  the  downcast  girl. 

The  Leisure  he  loved  that  he  might  debate  with  his  genius 
upon  any  next  step  was  denied  to  Willoughby:  he  had  to 
place  his  trust  in  the  skill  with  which  he  had  sown  and 
prepared  .Mrs.  Mountstuart'a  understanding  to  meet  the  girl 
— beautiful  abhorred  that  she  was  !  detested  darling!  thing 
to  Bqueeze  to  death  and  throw  to  the  dust,  and  mourn  over! 

Ee  had  to  risk  it;  and  at  an  hour  when  Lady  Busshe's 
prognostic  grievously  impressed  his  intense  apprehensiveness 
of  nature. 

A^  it  happened  that  Dr.  Middleton's  notion  of  a  disagree- 
able duty  in  colloquy  was  to  deliver  all  that  he  contained, 
and  escape  the  listening  to  a  syllable  of  reply,  Willoughby 
withdrew  his  daughter  from  him  opportunely. 

"  Mrs    Monntsl  uart  wants  you,  Clara." 

11  I  shall  be  very  happy,"  Clara  replied,  and  put  on  a  new 
face. 

An  imperceptible  nervous  shrinking  was  met  by  another 
force  in  her  bosom,  thai  pushed  her  to  advance  without  a 
reluctance.     She  9eeined  to  glitter. 

She  was  banded  to  Mrs.  Moiintstuart. 

Dr.  Middleton  laid  his  hand  over  Willoughby 's  shoulder, 
ing  on  a  bow  before  the  great  lady  of  the  district.  Ho 
kid:  "  An  opposition  of  female  instincts  to  mascu- 
line intellect  necessarily  creates  a  corresponding  antagonism 
of  intellect  to  in-t  in<t." 

'  Ber  answer,  sir  ?     Her  reasons  ?     Has  she  named  any?" 

'The  cat,"  Raid  Dr.  Middleton,  taking  breath  for  a 
Bentence,  "thai  humps  her  back  in  the  figure  of  the  letter 
li.  or  a  ('hue-.,  bridge,  has  given  the  dog  her  answer  and 
her  reasons,  we  may  presume:  but  he  that  undertakes  to 
translate  them  into  human  speech  might  likewise  venture  to 
I      ..use  an  addition  to  the  alphabet   and  a  continuation  of 


MRS.  MOUNTSTUART  AND  SIR  WILLOUGHBY.  330 

Homer.  The  one  performance  would  be  not  more  wonderful 
than  the  other.  Daughters,  Willoughby,  daughters  !  Above 
most  human  peccancies,  I  do  abhor  a  breach  of  faith.  She 
will  not  be  guilty  of  that.  I  demand  a  cheerful  fulfilment 
of  a  pledge :  and  I  sigh  to  think  that  I  cannot  co^nt  on  it 
without  administering  a  lecture." 

"  She  will  soon  be  my  care,  sir." 

"She  shall  be.  Why,  she  is  as  good  as  married.  She  is 
at  the  altar.  She  is  in  her  house.  She  is — why,  where  is 
she  not  ?  She  has  entered  the  sanctuary.  She  is  out  of  the 
market.  This  maenad  shriek  for  freedom  would  happily 
entitle  her  to  the  Republican  cap — the  Phrygian — in  a  revo- 
lutionary Parisian  procession.  To  me  it  has  no  meaning : 
and  but  that  I  cannot  credit  child  of  mine  with  mania,  I 
should  be  in  trepidation  of  her  wits." 

Sir  Willoughby's  livelier  fears  were  pacified  by  the  infor- 
mation that  Clara  had  simply  emitted  a  cry.  Clara  had 
once  or  twice  given  him  cause  for  starting  and  considering 
whether  to  think  of  her  sex  differently  or  condemningly  of 
her,  yet  he  could  not  deem  her  capable  of  fully  unbosoming 
herself  even  to  him,  and  under  excitement.  His  idea  of  the 
cowardice  of  girls  combined  with  his  ideal  of  a  waxwork  sex 
to  persuade' him  that  though  they  are  often  (he  had  expe- 
rienced it)  wantonly  desperate  in  their  acts,  their  tongues 
are  curbed  by  rosy  pudency.  And  this  was  in  his  favour. 
For  if  she  proved  speechless  and  stupid  with  Mrs.  Mount- 
stuart,  the  lady  would  turn  her  over,  and  beat  her  flat,  beat 
her  angular,  in  fine,  turn  her  to  any  shape,  despising  her, 
and  cordially  believe  him  to  be  the  model  gentleman  of 
Christendom.  She  would  fill  in  the  outlines  he  had  sketched 
to  her  of  a  picture  that  he  had  small  pride  in  by  comparison 
with  his  early  vision  of  a  fortune-favoured,  triumphing 
squire,  whose  career  is  like  the  sun's,  intelligibly  lordly  to 
all  comprehensions.  Not  like  your  model  gentleman,  that 
has  to  be  expounded — a  thing  for  abstract  esteem  !  How- 
ever, it  was  the  choice  left  to  him.  And  an  alternative  was 
enfolded  in  that.  Mrs.  Mountstuart's  model  gentleman  could 
marry  either  one  of  two  women,  throwing  the  other  over- 
board. He  was  bound  to  marry :  he  was  bound  to  take  to 
himself  one  of  them  :  and  whichever  one  he  selected  would 
cast  a  lustre  on  his  reputation.  At  least  she  would  rescue 
him  from  the  claws  of  Lady  Busshe,  and  her  owl's  hoot  of 

z2 


3t0  THI  BOOIST. 

'Willow  Pattern,'  and  her  hag's  shriek  of  'twice  jilted.1 
Thai  flying  infant  Willonghby  his  unprotected  little  incor- 
poreal omnipresent  Self  (not  thought  of  so  much  as  pas- 
. 1 1 . ■  1  \  felt  for) — would  not  be  scoffed  at  as  the  luckless 
with  women.  A  full  indeed  from  his  original  conception  of 
his  name  of  fame  abroad!  But  Willonghby  had  the  high 
consolation  of  knowing  that  others  have  fallen  lower.  There 
is  the  fate  of  the  devils  to  comfort  us,  if  we  are  driven  hard. 
one  of  your  pangs  another  bosom  is  racked  by  ten,  we  read 
in  tin-  solacing  15ook. 

With    all    these    nice    calculations    at    work,  Willoughby 

1   above    himself,  contemplating  his  active  machinery, 

which   he  could   partly   criticize   but  could   not  stop,  in  a 

•ilar  wonderment  at  the  aims  and  schemes  and  tremours 

of  one  who  was  handsome,  manly,  acceptable  in  the  world's 

3  :  and  had  lie  nol  loved  himself  most  heartily  he  would 

been  divided  to  the  extent  of  repudiating  that  urgent 

and  excited   half  of  his  being,  whose  motions  appeared  as 

those  of  a  body  of  insects  perpetually  erecting  and  repairing 

a  structure  of  extraordinary  pettiness.      He  loved  himself 

too  Beriobsly  to  dwell  on  the  division  for  more  than  a  minute 

bo.     But  having   seen    it,  and   for  the  first  time,  as   he 

believed,  his  passion  for  the  woman  causing  it  became  sur- 

charged  with  bitterness,  atrabi  liar. 

A  glance  behind  him,  as  he  walked  away  with  Dr.  Middle- 
ton,  sli  i  llara,   cunning  creature  that   she  was,  airily 
ug  her  malicious  graces  in  the  preliminary  courtesies 
with  Mrs.  Mountstuart. 


CHA.PTEB   XXXV. 

>!!  =  =  MIDDLETON  AND  MRS.  MOUNTSTUART. 

Sn  beside  me,  fair  Middleton,"  said  the  great  lady. 
u Gladly,"  said  Clara,  bowing  to  her  title. 
"  I   want  to  -"iind  you.  my  dear." 
Clara  presented  an  open  countenance  with  a  dim  interro- 

m  on  the  forehead.     "  Yea  :"  she  said  submissively. 
.  were  one  of  my  bright  faces   last  night.     I  was  in 


MISS  MIDDLETON  AND  MES.  MOUNTSTUART.  341 

love  with  you.  Delicate  vessels  ring  sweetly  to  a  finger- 
nail, and  if  the  wit  is  true,  you  answer  to  it ;  that  I  can  see, 
and  that  is  what  I  like.  Most  of  the  people  one  has  at  a 
table  are  drums.  A  rub-a-dub-dub  on  them  is  the  only  way 
to  get  a  sound.  When  they  can  be  persuaded  to  do  it  upon 
one  another,  they  call  it  conversation." 

"  Colonel  De  Crave  was  very  funny." 

"  Funny,  and  witty  too." 

"  But  never  spiteful." 

"  These  Irish  or  half-Irishmen  are  my  taste.  If  they're 
not  politicians,  mind  :  I  mean  Irish  gentlemen.  I  will  never 
have  another  dinner-party  without  one.  Our  men's  tempers 
are  uncertain.  You  can't  get  them  to  forget  themselves. 
And  when  the  wine  is  in  them  the  nature  comes  out,  and 
they  must  be  buffetting,  and  up  start  politics,  and  good-bye 
to  harmony !  My  husband,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  was  one  of 
those  who  have  a  long  account  of  ruined  dinners  against 
them.  I  have  seen  him  and  his  friends  red  as  the  roast  and 
white  as  the  boiled  with  wiath  on  a  popular  topic  they  had 
excited  themselves  over,  intrinsically  not  worth  a  snap  of 
the  fingers.  In  London !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mountsfuart,  to 
aggravate  the  charge  against  her  lord  in  the  Shades.  "  But 
town  or  country,  the  table  should  be  sacred.  I  have  heard 
women  say  it  is  a  plot  on  the  side  of  the  men  to  teach  us  our 
littleness.  I  don't  believe  they  have  a  plot.  It  would  be  to 
compliment  them  on  a  talent.  I  believe  they  fall  upon  one 
another  blindly,  simply  because  they  are  full :  which  is,  we 
are  told,  the  preparation  for  the  fighting  Englishman.  They 
cannot  eat  and  keep  a  truce.  Did  you  notice  that  dreadful 
Mr.  Capes  ?" 

"  The  gentleman  who  frequently  contradicted  papa  ?  But 
Colonel  De  Craye  was  good  enough  to  relieve  us." 

"  How,  my  dear  ?" 

'  Tou  did  not  hear  him  ?  He  took  advantage  of  an 
interval  when  Mr.  Capas  was  breathing  after  a  pa?an  to  his 
friend,  the  Governor — I  think — of  one  of  the  Presidencies, 
to  say  to  the  lady  beside  him :  '  He  was  a  wonderful  ad- 
ministrator and  great  logician  ;  he  married  an  Anglo-Indian 
widow,  and  soon  after  published  a  pamphlet  in  favour  of 
Suttee.' " 

"  And  what  did  the  lady  say  ?" 
"  She  said,  '  Oh.'  " 


842  THE  EGOIST. 

"  Hark  at  hor!     And  was  it.  beard  ?" 

"  Mr.  Capes  granted  the  widow,  but  declared  he  had  never 
seen  the  pamphlet  in  favour  of  Suttee,  and  disbelieved  in 
it.  Be  insisted  that  it  was  to  be  named  Sati.  He  was 
vehement." 

•■  N'nw  I  do  remember : — which  must  have  delighted  the 
colonel.  And  Mr.  (  apes  retired  from  the  front  upon  a  repe- 
tition of  '  in  toto,  in  toto.'  As  if  '  in  toto  '  were  the  language 
of  a  dinner-table!  But  what  will  ever  teach  these  men  ? 
Must  we  import  Frenchmen  to  give  them  an  example  in  the 
art  of  conversation,  as  their  grandfathers  brought  over 
marquises  to  instruct  them  in  salads  p  And  our  young  men 
too!  Wmnen  have  to  take  to  the  hunting-field  to  be  able  to 
talk  with  them  and  be  on  a  par  with  their  grooms.  Now, 
re  was  WillOoghby  Patterne,  a  prince  among  them  for- 
merly.  Now,  did  you  observe  him  last  night?  did  you 
notice  how,  instead  of  conversing,  instead  of  assisting  me — 
as  he  was  bound  to  do  doubly,  owing  to  the  defection  of 
Qon  Whit  fipnl  :  a  thing  I  don't  yet  comprehend — there 
I  it  sharpening  his  lower  lip  for  cutting  remarks.  And 
at  my  best  man  !  at  Colonel  De  Craye !  If  he  had  attacked 
Mr.  ('apes,  with  his  Governor  of  Bomby,  as  the  man  pro- 
nounces it,  or  Colonel  Wildjohn  and  his  Protestant  Church 
in  Danger,  or  Sir  Wilson  1  'ei  t  iter  harping  on  his  Monarchical 
or  any  other!  No,  he  preferred  to  be  sarcastic 
upon  friend  Horace,  and  he  had  the  worst  of  it.  Sarcasm  is 
illy!  What  is  the  gain  if  he  has  been  smart  ?  People 
the  epigram  and  remember  the  other's  good  temper. 
On  that  field,  my  dear,  you  must  make  up  your  mind  to  be 
beaten  by  '  Friend  Horace.'  I  have  my  prejudices  and  I  have 
my  prepossessions,  but  I  love  good  temper,  and  I  love  wit, 
and  when   I  see  a  man    p  ed   of  both,  I  set  my  cap  at 

him.  and   there's  my  flat  confession,  and  highly  unfeminine 

ied  Clara. 
"  We  are  one,  then." 

Clara  put  up  a  mouth  empty  of  words :  she  was  quite  one 

with  her.     Mrs.  Mountstuarl  pressed  her  hand.    "When  one 

t   intimate  with  a  dainty  rogue!"  she  said.     "You 

forgive  me  all  that,  for  I  could  vow  that  Willoughby  has 

betrayed  me." 

Clara    looked    soft,    kind,    hright,   in    turns,   and    clouded 


MISS  MIDDLETON  AND  MRS.  MOUNTSTUART.  343 

instantly  when  the  lady  resumed  :  "  A  friend  of  my  own  sex, 
and  young,  and  a  close  neighbour,  is  just  what  I  would  have 
prayed  for.  And  I'll  excuse  you,  my  dear,  for  not  being  so 
anxious  about  the  friendship  of  an  old  woman.  But  I  shall 
be  of  use  to  you,  you  will  find.  In  the  first  place,  I  never 
tap  for  secrets.  In  the  second,  I  keep  them.  Thirdly,  I 
have  some  power.  And  fourth,  every  young  married  woman 
has  need  of  a  friend  like  me.  Yes,  and  Lady  Patterne  head- 
ing all  the  county  will  be  the  stronger  for  my  backing.  You 
don't  look  so  mighty  well  pleased,  my  dear.     Speak  out." 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Mountstuart !" 

"  I  tell  you,  I  am  very  fond  of  Willoughby,  but  I  saw  the 
faults  of  the  boy  and  see  the  man's.     He  has  the  pride  of  a 
king,  and  it's   a  pity  if  you  offend  it.     He  is  prodigal  in 
generosity,  but  he  can't  forgive.     As  to  his  own  errors,  you 
must  be  blind  to  them  as  a  saint.    The  secret  of  him  is,  that 
he  is  one  of  those  excessively  civilized  creatures  who  aim  at 
perfection  :  and  I  think  he  ought  to  be  supported  in  his  con- 
ceit of  having  attained  it ;  for  the  more  men  of  that  class, 
the  greater  our  influence.     He  excels  in  manly  sports,  be- 
cause he  won't  be  excelled  in  anything,  but  as  men  don't 
comprehend  his  fineness,  he  comes  to  us  ;  and  his  wife  must 
manage  him  by  that  key.     You  look  down  at  the  idea  of 
managing.    It  has  to  be  done.    One  thing  you  may  be  assured 
of,  he  will  be  nroud  of  you.     His  wife  won't  be  very  much 
enamoured  of  herself  if  she  is  not  the  happiest  woman  in 
the  world.     You  will  have  the  best  horses,  the  best  dresses, 
the  finest  jewels,  in  England ;  and  an   incomparable  cook. 
The  house  will  be  changed  the  moment  you  enter  it  as  Lady 
Patterne.  And,  my  dear,  just  where  he  is,  with  all  his  graces, 
deficient  of  attraction,  yours  will  tell.     The  sort  of  Othello 
he  would  make,  or  Leontes,  I  don't  know,  and  none  of  us 
ever  needs  to  know.    My  impression  is,  that  if  even  a  shadow 
of  a  suspicion  flitted  across  him,  he  is  a  sort  of  man  to  double- 
dye  himself  in  guilt  by  way  of  vengeance  in  anticipation  of 
an  imagined  offence.  Not  uncommon  with  men.  I  have  heard 
strange  stories  of  them:   and  so  will  you  in  your  time  to  come, 
but  not  from  me.     No  young  woman  shall  ever  be  the  sourer 
for  having  been  my  friend.     One  word  of  advice  now  we  are 
on  the  topic:  never  play  at  counter-strokes  with  him.     He 
will  be  certain  to  outstroke  you,  and  you  will  be  driven  farther 
than  you  meant  to  go.     They  say  we  beat  men  at  that  game 


$4  [■  THE  EGOIST. 

and  so  we  do,  at  the  cost  of  beating  ourselves.  And  if  once 
uc  are  started,  it.  is  a  race-course  ending  on  a  precipice — over 
goes  the  winner.  We  must  be  moderately  slavish  to  keep 
our  place;  which  is  given  us  in  appearance ;  but  appearances 
make  up  a  remarkably  large  part  of  life,  and  far  the  most 
comfortable,  so  long  as  we  are  discreet  at  the  right  moment. 
He  is  a  man  whose  pride,  when  hurt,  would  run  his  wife  to 
perdition  to  solace  it.  If  he  married  a  troublesome  widow, 
his  pamphleton  Suttee  would  be  out  within  the  year.  Vernon 
Whitford  would  receive  instructions  about  it  the  first  frosty 
moon.     You  like  Miss  Dale?" 

"I  think  I  like  her  better  than  she  likes  me,"  said  Clara. 
"  Have  you  never  warmed  together  ?  " 
"  I  have  tried  it.     She  is  not  one  bit  to  blame.     I  can  see 
how  it  is  that  she  misunderstands  me:    or  justly  condemns 
me,  perhaps  I  should  say." 

"  The  hero  of  two  women  must  die  and  be  wept  over  in 
common  before  they  can  appreciate  one  another.      You   are 
not  cold  ?  " 
"No." 

"  You  shuddered,  my  dear." 
"Did  I"? 

"  I  do  sometimes.     Feet  will  be  walking  over  one's  grave, 
wherei  er  it  lies.     Be  sure  of  this  :  AVilloughby  Patterne  is  a 
man  of  unimpeachable  honour." 
'    I  do  not  doubt  it." 

"  He  means  to  be  devoted  to  you.      He  has  been  accus- 
tomed   to    have    women    hanging    around    him    like    votive 
rings." 
•  I  .  .  .  .  !  " 

'  Yon  cannot :  of  course  not :  any  one  could  see  that  at  a 
glance.  You  are  all  the  sweeter  to  me  for  not  being  tame. 
Marriage  cures  a  multitude  of  indispositions." 

••  ( ili  !   Mrs.  Mountstuart,  will  you  listen  to  me  ?  " 
■  Presently.      Don'i    threaten  me  with  confidences.     Elo- 
qnence  is  a  terrible  thing  in  woman.     I  suspect,  my  dear, 
that  we  both  know  as  much  as  could  be  spoken." 
••  You  hardly  suspect  the  truth,  I  fear." 
"  Let  me   tell  you  one  thing  about   jealous    men — when 
fchey  are  not  blackamoors  married  to  disobedient  daughters. 
I      peak  of  our  civil  creature  of  the  drawing-rooms:    and 
lovers,  mind,   not  husbands:     two  distinct  species,  married 


MISS  MIDDLETOTST  AND  MES    MOUNTSTUAET.  345 

or  not : — they're  rarely  given  to  jealousy  unless  they  are 
flighty  themselves.  The  jealousy  fixes  theru.  They  have 
only  to  imagine  that  we  are  for  some  fun  likewise  and  they 
prow  as  deferential  as  my  footman,  as  harmless  as  the 
sportsman  whose  gun  lias  burst.  Ah  !  my  fair  Middleton, 
am  I  pretending  to  teach  you  ?  You  have  read  him  his 
lesson,  and  my  table  suffered  for  it  last  night,  but  I  bear  no 
rancour." 

"  You  bewilder  me,  Mrs.  Mountstnart." 

"Not  if  I  tell  you  that  you  have  driven  the  poor  man  to 
try  whether  it  would  be  possible  for  him  to  give  you  up." 

"  I  have  ?  " 

"  Well,  and  you  are  successful." 

"lam?" 

"  Jump,  my  dear !  " 

"He  will?" 

"  When  men  love  stale  instead  of  fresh,  withered  better 
than  blooming,  excellence  in  the  abstract  rather  than  the 
palpable.  With  their  idle  prate  of  feminine  intellect,  and  a 
grotto  nymph,  and,  and  a  mother  of  Gracchi !  Why,  he 
must  think  me  dazed  with  admiration  of  him  to  talk  to  me  ! 
One  listens,  you  know.  And  he  is  one  of  the  men  who  cast 
a  kind  of  physical  spell  on  you  while  he  has  you  by  the  ear, 
until  you  begin  to  think  of  it  by  talking  to  somebody  else. 
I  suppose  there  are  clever  people  who  do  see  deep  into  the 
breast  while  dialogue  is  in  progress.  One  reads  of  them. 
No,  my  dear,  you  have  very  cleverly  managed  to  show  him 
that  it  isn't  at  all  possible :  he  can't.  And  the  real  cause 
for  alarm  in  my  humble  opinion  is  lest  your  amiable  foil 
should  have  been  a  trifle,  as  he  would  say,  deceived,  too 
much  in  earnest,  led  too  far.  One  may  reprove  him  for  not 
being  wiser,  but  men  won't  learn  without  groaning  that 
they  are  simply  weapons  taken  up  to  be  put  down  when 
done  with.  Leave  it  to  me  to  compose  him. — Willoughby 
can't  give  you  up.  I'm  certain  he  has  tried ;  his  pride  has 
been  horridly  wounded.  You  are  shrewd,  and  he  has  had 
his  lesson.  If  these  little  rufflings  don't  come  before  mar- 
riage they  come  after  ;  so  it's  not  time  lost ;  and  it's  good  to 
be  able  to  look  back  on  them.  You  are  very  white,  my 
child." 

"  Can  you,  Mrs.  Mountstuart,  can  you  think  I  would  be  so 
heartlessly  treacherous  ? ''" 


1UY  EGOIST. 

"  r»o  honest,  fair  Middleton,  and  answer  me  :  Can  you  say 
bad  mil  a  corner  of  an  idea  of  producing  an  effect  on 
Willoughby  P" 

Clara  checked  the  instinct  of  her  tongue  to  defend  her 
reddening  cheeks,  with  a  sense  that  she  was  disintegrating 
ai  d  crumbling;  but  she  wanted  this  lady  for  a  friend,  and 
she  had  to  submit  to  the  conditions,  and  be  red  and  silent. 

Mrs.  Mountstuarl  examined  her  leisurely. 

"  Thai  will  do.  Conscience  blushes.  One  knows  it  by 
the  outer  conflagration.  Don't  be  hard  on  yourself:  there 
yon  are  in  the  mi  her  extreme.  That  blush  of  yours  would 
couni  with  me  against  any  quantity  of  evidence — all  the 
I     ooklyns  in  the  kingdom.     You  lost  your  purse." 

•"  I  discovered  that  it  was  lost  this  morning." 

"  Flitch  has  been  here  with  it.  Willoughby  has  it.  Ton 
will  ask  him  for  it ;  he  will  demand  payment :  you  will  be  a 
couple  of  yards' length  or  so  of  cranio i sy  :  and  there  ends 
the  episode,  nobody  killed,  only  a  poor  man  melancholy- 
wounded,  and  I  must  offer  him  my  hand  to  mend  him,  vow- 
i t i i_r  to  prove  to  him  that  Suttee  was  properly  abolished. 
Well,  and  now  to  business.  I  said  I  wanted  to  sound  you. 
5  have  been  overdone  with  porcelain.  Poor  Lady  Buss  he 
is  in  despair  at  your  disappointment.  Now,  I  mean  my 
v.  i  dding-present  to  be  to  your  taste." 

"Madam  !" 

"  Who  is  the  madam  you  are  imploring  ?" 

"  Dear  .Mrs.  Mountstuart ! " 

"Well   ?" 

'•  I  shall  fall  in  your  esteem.     Perhaps  you  will  help  me. 
No  one  else  can.      1  am  a  prisoner  :    1  am  compelled  to  con- 
tinue  this   imposture.      Oh!     1    slum   speaking  much:    you 
i  to  it  and  1  dislike  it :  but  I  must  endeavour  to  explain 
that   I   am  unworthy  of  the  position  you   think  a 
proud  one." 

•  Tut-tut  ;  we  are  all  unworthy,  cross  our  arms,  bow  our 
;   accept    the   honours.      Are  you  playing  humble 
dmaid  ?       What  an  old   organ-tune   that   is!      Well? 
Give  me  reasons." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  marry." 

"  1  le's  the  great  match  of  the  county  1 " 

"  1  cannot  marry  him." 


MISS  MIDDLETON  AND  MRS.  MOUNTSTUAET.  847 

"Why,  you  are  at  the  cliurch-cloor  with  him!  Caanot 
marry  him  ?  " 

"  It  does  not  bind  me." 

"  The  church-door  is  as  binding  as  the  altar  to  an  honour- 
able girl.  What  have  you  been  about  P  Since  I  am  in  for 
confidences,  half  ones  won't  do.  We  must  have  honourable 
young  women  as  well  as  men  of  honour.  You  can't  imagine 
he  is  to  be  thrown  over  now,  at  this  hour  ?  What  have  you 
against  him  ?  come  !  " 

"  I  have  found  that  I  do  not  .  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

"  Love  him." 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  grimaced  transiently.  "  That  is  no 
answer.     The  cause  !  "  she  said     "  What  has  he  done  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  And  when  did  you  discover  this  nothing  ?  " 

"  By  degrees  :  unknown  to  myself  ;  suddenly." 

"  Suddenly  and  by  degrees  ?  I  suppose  it's  useless  to  ask 
for  a  head.  But  if  all  this  is  true,  you  ought  not  to  be 
here." 

"  I  wish  to  go ;  I  am  unable." 

"  Have  you  had  a  scene  together  ?  M 

"  I  have  expressed  my  wish." 

"  In  roundabout  'i — girl's  English  ?  " 

"  Quite  clearly.     Oh  !  very  clearly." 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  your  father  ?  n 

"  I  have." 

"  And  what  does  Dr.  Middleton  say  ?  " 

"  It  is  incredible  to  him." 

"  To  me  too  !  I  can  understand  little  differences,  little 
whims,  caprices :  we  don't  settle  into  harness  for  a  tap  on 
the  shoulder,  as  a  man  becomes  a  knight :  but  to  break  and 
bounce  away  from  an  unhappy  gentleman  at  the  church-door 
is  either  madness  or  it's  one  of  the  things  without  a  name. 
You  think  you  are  quite  sure  of  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  am  so  sure,  that  I  look  back  with  regret  on  the  time 
when  I  was  not." 

"  But  you  were  in  love  with  him." 

"  I  was  mistaken." 

"  No  love  ?  " 

"  I  have  none  to  give." 

"  Dear  me  ! — Yes,  yes,  but  that  tone   of  sorrowful    convio- 


348  tiii:  egoist. 

tion  is  often  a  trick,  it's  not  new  :  and  I  know  that  assumption 
of  plain  Bense  to  pass  off  :i  monstrosity."  Mrs.  Mountstuart 
Btruck  her  lap  :  "  Soh  1  bnfc  I've  had  to  rack  my  brain  for 
it  :  f<  minine  disgusl  :  5Tou  have  been  hearing  imputations 
on  his  past  life  ?  moral  character?  No?  Circumstances 
,t  make  him  behave  unkindly,  not  unhandsomely:  and 
we  have  no  claim  over  a  man's  past,  or  it's  too  late  to  assert 
it.  What  is  t he  case  ?  " 
"  We  are  quite  divided." 

'•  Nothing  in  the  way  of  ...  .  nothing  green-eyed  ?  " 
"  Far  from  that!" 
"  Then,  name  it." 
"  We  disag]  '■(•." 

•■  Many  a  very  good  agreement  is  founded  on  disagreeing. 

■i)  be  regretted  thai  you  are  not  portionless.     If  you  hud 

.  you  would  have  made  very  little  of  disagreeing.     You 

181  as  much  bound  in  honour  us  if  you  hud  the  ring  on 

your  finger." 

'•  In  honour!     But  I  appeal  to  his,  I  am  no  wife  for  him." 

i lut  it'  he  insists,  you  consent?  " 
"  I  appeal  to  reason.     Is  it,  madam  .  .  .  ." 
"But,  I  say,  if  he  insists,  you  consent !  " 
"  He  will  insist  upon  his  own  misery  as  well  us  mine.' 
Mrs.     Mountstuart    rocked  herself.     "My   poor  Sir  Wil- 
Erhby  !       What  a  fate! — And    I  who  took  you  for  a  clever 
girl  !     Why,    I    have   been   admiring    your    management  of 
him  !      And   here  am    I    hound  to  tukc  a  lesson  from   Lady 

od  Middleton,  don't  let  it  be  said  that 

deeper  than  I  !     I  put  some  little  vanity 

in  it.  I  own:  I  conceal  it.     She  declares  that  when  she 

at— 1  don't  believe  her — she  had  a  premonition 

that  it  would  come  back.     Surely  you  won't  justify  the  ex- 

a    woman    without    common   reverence: — tor 

we  please  to  ourselves,  hois  a  splendid  man 

I  I  did  it  chiefly  to  (  n  ourage  and  come  at  you).      We 

ten  behold  Buch  a  lordly-locking  man :  soconversable 

when  he  feels  at  home;  a    picture  of   an    Knu'lish    gcntlc- 

!      The  very  man  we  want    married  for  our  neighbour- 

I!     A  woman  who  can  openly   talk  of  expecting  him  to 

vice  jilted  !     You  shrink.     It  is  repulsive.     It  would  he 

prehensible:  except,  of  course,   to   Lady   Busshe,    who 

r  to    one    of    her    violent    conclusions    and    became    a 


MISS  MIDDLETON  AND  MRS    MOUNTSTUART.  349 

prophetess.  Conceive  a  woman  imagining-  it  could  happen 
twice  to  the  same  man  !  I  am  not  sure  she  did  not  send  the 
identical  present  that  arrived  and  returned  once  before  :  you 
know,  the  Durham  engagement.  She  told  me  last  night  she 
had  it  back.  I  watched  her  listening  very  suspiciously  to 
Professor  Crooklvn.  My  dear,  it  is  her  passion  to  foretell 
disasters — her  passion!  And  when  they  are  confirmed,  she 
triumphs,  of  course.  We  shall  have  her  domineering  over 
us  with  sapient  nods  at  every  trifle  occurring.  The  county 
will  be  unenclureable.  Unsay  it,  my  Middleton  !  And  don't 
answer  like  an  oracle  because  I  do  all  the  talking.  Pour  out 
to  me.  You'll  soon  come  to  a  stop  and  find  the  want  of 
reason  in  the  want  of  words.  I  assure  you  that's  true. — Let 
me  have  a  good  gaze  at  you.  No,"  said  Mrs.  Mountstuart, 
after  posturing  herself  to  peruse  Clara's  features,  "  brains 
you  have  :  one  can  see  it  by  the  nose  and  the  month.  I  could 
vow  you  are  the  girl  I  thought  you ;  you  have  your  wits  on 
tiptoe.     How  of  the  heart  ?  " 

"  None,"  Clara  sig*hed. 

The  sigh  was  partly  voluntary,  though  unforced ;  as  one 
may  with  ready  sincerity  aco  a  character  that  is  our  own  only 
through  sympathy. 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  felt  the  extra-weight  in  the  young  lady's 
falling  breath.  There  was  no  necessity  for  a  deep  sigh  over 
an  absence  of  heart  or  confession  of  it.  If  Clara  did  not  love 
the  man  to  whom  she  was  betrothed,  sighing  about  it  sig- 
nified— what  '?  some  pretence:  and  a  pretence  is  the  cloak  of 
a  secret.  Girls  do  not  sigh  in  that  way  with  compassion  for 
the  man  they  have  no  heart  for,  unless  at  the  same  time 
they  should  be  oppressed  by  the  knowledge  or  dread  of 
having  a  heart  for  some  one  else.  As  a  rule,  they  have  no 
compassion  to  bestow  on  him  :  you  might  as  reasonably  ex- 
pect a  soldier  to  bewail  the  enemy  he  strikes  in  action :  they 
must  be  very  disengaged  to  have  it.  And  supposing  a  show 
of  the  thing  to  be  exhibited,  when  it  has  not  been  worried 
out  of  them,  there  is  a  reserve  in  the  background  :  they  are 
pitying  themselves  under  a  mask  of  decent  pity  of  their 
wretch. 

So  ran  Mrs.  Mountstuart's  calculations,  which  were  like 
her  suspicion,  coarse  and  broad,  not  absolutely  incorrect,  but 
not  of  an  exact  measure  with  the  truMi.  That  pin's  head  of 
the  truth  is  rarely  hit  by  design.     The  search  after  it  of  the 


850  THE  EGOIST. 

t 

professionally  penetrative  in  the  dark  of  a  bosom  may  brin^ 
it  forth  by  the  heavy  knocking  all  about  the  neighbourhood 
that  we  call  good  guessing,  Imh  it  does  not  come  out  clean; 
other  matter  adheres  to  it ;  and  being  more  it  is  less  than 
truth.  The  unadulterateis  to  be  had  only  by  faith  in  it  or  by 
ting  for  it. 

A  lover !  thought  the  sagacious  dame.  There  was  no 
Li\  i'v :  some  love  there  was  :  or  rather,  there  was  a  preparation 
of  the  chamber,  with  no  lamp  yet  lighted. 

"  Do  you  positively  tell  me  you  have  no  heart  for  the 
position  of  first  lady  of  the  county  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mountstuart. 

Clara's  reply  was  firm:     "  None  whatever." 

"My  dear,  I  will  believe  you  on  one  condition. — Look  at 
me  You  have  eyes.  If  you  are  for  mischief,  you  are  armed 
for  it.  I !nt  how  much  better,  when  vou  have  won  a  prize, 
to  settle  dosvn  and  wear  it!  Lady  Patterne  will  have  entire 
occupation  for  her  flights  and  whimsies  in  leading  the  county. 
And  the  man,  surely  the  man — he  behaved  badly  last  night: 
but  a  beauty  like  this,"  she  pushed  a  finger  at  Clara's  cheek, 
and  doated  a  half  instant,"  you  have  the  very  beauty  to  break- 
in  an  Ogre  s  temper.  And  the  man  is  as  governable  as  he  is 
:  rentable.  You  have  the  beauty  the  French  call — no,  it's 
the  beauty  of  a  queen  of  elves  :  one  sees  them  lurking  about 
you,  one  here,  one  there.  Smile — they  dance:  be  doleful — 
they  hang  themselves.  No,  there's  not  a  trace  of  satanic ; 
at  least,  not  yet.  And  come,  come,  my  Middleton,  the  man 
is  a  man  to  be  proud  of.  You  can  send  him  into  Parliament 
to  wear  off  his  humours.  To  my  thinking,  he  has  a  fine 
style:  conscious  ?  I  never  thought  so  before  last  night.  I 
(':|n  '  what    has   happened  to  him  recently.      He  was 

once  a  young  Grand  Monarque.     He    was    really  a  superb 
ntleman.     Have  you  been  wounding  hiinr" 
It  is  my  misfortune  to  be  obliged  to  wound  him,"   said 
Clara. 

Ite  needlessly,  my  child,  for  marry  him  you  must." 

Clara  s  bosom  rose:  her  shoulders  rose  too,  narrowing,  and 
her  head  fell  slightly  back. 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  exclaimed:  "  But  the  scandal !  You 
would  never  never  think  of  following  the  example  of  that 
Durham  girl  r — whether  she  was  provoked  to  it  by  jealousy 
or  not.     It  seems  to  have  gone  so  astonishingly  far  with  you 


MISS  MIDDLETON  AND  MRS.  MOUNTSTUART.  351 

in  a  very  short  time,  that  one  is  alarmed  as  to  where  you 
will  stop.     Your  look  just  now  was  downright  revulsion." 

"  I  fear  it  is.  It  is.  I  am  past  my  own  control.  Dear 
madam,  you  have  my  assurance  that  I  will  not  behave 
scandalously  or  dishonourably.  What  I  would  entreat  of 
you,  is  to  help  me.  I  know  this  of  myself:  I  am  not  the 
best  of  women.  I  am  impatient,  wickedly.  I  should  be  no 
good  wife.  Feelings  like  mine  teach  me  unhappy  things  of 
myself." 

"Rich,  handsome,  lordly,  influential,  brilliant  health,  fine 
©states,"  Mrs.  Mountstuart  enumerated  in  petulant  accents 
as  they  started  across  her  mind  some  of  Sir  Willoughby's 
attributes  for  the  attraction  of  the  soul  of  woman.  "  I  sup- 
pose you  wish  me  to  take  you  in  earnest  ?  " 

"  I  appeal  to  you  for  help." 

"What  help?" 

"  Persuade  him  of  the  folly  of  pressing  me  to  keep  my 
word." 

"  I  will  believe  you,  my  dear  Middleton,  on  one  condition  : 
— your  talk  of  no  heart  is  nonsense.  A  change  like  this,  if 
one  is  to  believe  in  the  change,  occurs  through  the  heart,  not 
because  there  is  none.  Don't  you  see  that  ?  liutif  you  want 
me  for  a  friend,  you  must  not  sham  stupid.  It's  bad  enough 
in  itself  :  the  imitation's  horrid.  Tou  have  to  be  honest  with 
me,  and  answer  me  right  out.  You  came  here  on  this  visit 
intending  to  marry  Willoughby  Patterne." 

"Yes." 

"  And  gradually  you  suddenly  discovered,  since  you  came 
here,  that  you  did  not  intend  it,  if  you  could  find  a  means  of 
avoiding  it." 

"  Oh  !  madam,  yes,  it  is  true." 

"  Now  comes  the  test.  And,  my  lovely  Middleton,  your 
flamin«  cheeks  won't  suffice  for  me  this  time.  The  old  ser- 
pent can  blush  like  an  innocent  maid  on  occasion.  You  are 
to  speak,  and  you  are  to  tell  me  in  six  words  why  that  was : 
and  don't  waste  one  on  '  madam,'  or  '  Oh  !  Mrs.  Mountstuart.' 
Why  did  you  change  ?  " 

"  I  came  ....  when  I  came  I  was  in  some  doubt.  In- 
deed I  speak  the  truth.  I  found  I  could  not  give  him  tho 
admiration  he  has,  I  dare  say,  a  right  to  expect.  I  turned  — 
it  surprised  me  :  it  surprises  me  now.  But  so  completely ! 
So  that  to  think  of  marrying  him  is  .  .  .  ." 


02  THE  EGOIST. 


Ut>  — 


"Defer  the  simile,"  Mrs.  Mountstuart  interposed.  "If 
yon  hit  on  a  clever  one,  you  will  never  get  the  better  of  it. 
Now,  by  jusl  as  much  as  you  have  outstripped  my  limitation 
of  v.  to  you,  you  show  me  you  are  dishonest." 

"  1  could  make  a  vow." 
"You  would  loi> wear  yourself." 
*'  Will  yon  help  me  ?  " 

"  If  you  are  perfectly  ingenuous,  I  may  try." 
"  1  tear  lady,  w  hat  more  can  1  say  ?  " 
"  It  may  be  ditlicult.     You  can  reply  to  a  catechism." 
"  I  sliall  have  your  help  ?  " 

"Well,  yes;  though  1  don't  like  stipulations  between 
friends.  There  is  no  man  living  to  whom  you  could  will- 
ingly  give  your  hand?  That  is  my  question.  I  cannot 
possibly  take  a  step  unless  I  know.  Reply  briefly  :  there  is 
or  there  is  not." 

Clara  sat    back  with  bated  breath,   mentally  taking  the 
leap  into  the  abyss,  realizing  it,  and  the  cold  prudence  of 
abstention,  and  the  delirium  of  the  confession.      Was  there 
h  a  man  ?     It  resembled  freedom  to  think  there  was:  to 
avow  it  promised  freedom. 
"  Oh  !  .Mrs.  Mountstuart." 
"Well?  " 

"  You  will  help  me  ?  " 

"Upon  my  word,  I  shall  begin  to  doubt  your  desire  for 
it." 

"  V.  /  give  my  hand,  madam?  " 

•■  It.        !      And  with  wits  like   yours,    can't  you  per- 
ve  where  hesitation  in  answering   such  a  question    lands 

"I  lady,    will   you   give   me   your   hand  ?    may   I 

whisper  r 

••  Vmi  need  not  whisper:  I  won't  look." 

Clara's  voice  trembled  on  a  ti  rise  chord. 

"  Tm  re  i-  'tie compared  with  him  I  feel  my  insig- 
nificance.    1 E  I  could  aid  him." 

"  What  necessity  have  you  to  tell  me  more  than  that  there 
is  one  r 

'  Ah.  madam,  it  is  different-  not  as  you  imagine.  You 
bid  tm-  In'  scrupulously  truthful.  1  am  :  I  wish  you  to  know 
thi  .  rent  kind  of  feeling  it  is  from  what  might  be  sus- 
pected from  ....  a  confession.     To  give  my  hand,  is  beyond 


MISS  MIDDLETON  AND  MRS.  MOUNTSTUART.  353 

any  thought  I  have  ever  encouraged,  if  you  had  asked  me 
whether  there  is  one  whom  I  admire — yes,  I  do.  I  cannot 
help  admiring  a  beautiful  and  brave  self-denying  nature.  It 
is  one  whom  you  must  pity,  and  to  pity  casts  you  beneath 
him  :  for  you  pity  him  because  it  is  his  nobleness  that  has 
been  the  enemy  of  his  fortunes.     He  lives  for  others." 

Her  voice  was  musically  thrilling  in  that  low  muted  tone 
of  the  very  heart,  impossible  to  deride  or  disbelieve. 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  set  her  head  nodding  on  springs. 

"  Is  he  clever  ?  " 

"Very." 

"  He  talks  well  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

*'  Handsome  ?  " 

"  He  might  be  thought  so." 

"  Witty  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  is." 

"  Gay,  cheerful  ?  " 

"  In  his  manner." 

"  Why,  the  man  would  be  a  mountebank  if  he  adopted  any- 
other.     And  poor  ?  " 

"  He  is  not  wealthy." 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  preserved  a  lengthened  silence  but 
nipped  Clara's  fingers  once  or  twice  to  reassure  her  without 
approving.  "  Of  course  he's  poor,"  she  said  at  last ;  "directly 
the  reverse  of  what  you  could  have,  it  must  be.  Well,  my 
fair  Middleton,  I  can't  say  you  have  been  dishonest.  I'll 
help  you  as  far  as  I'm  able.  How,  it  is  quite  impossible  to 
tell.  We're  in  the  mire.  The  best  way  seems  to  me,  to  get 
this  pitiable  angel  to  cut  some  ridiculous  capers  and  present 
you  another  view  of  him.  I  don't  believe  in  his  innocence. 
He  knew  you  to  be  a  plighted  woman." 

"  He  has  not  once  by  word  or  sign  hinted  a  disloyalty." 

"Then  how  do  you  know  .   .  .   .  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  He  is  not  the  cause  of  your  wish  to  break  your  engage- 
ment ?  " 

"No." 

"  Then  vou  have  succeeded  in  just  telling  me  nothing 
What  is  ?  " 

"Ah!  madam." 

2a 


354  THE  I'OOIST. 

44  You  would  break  your  engagement  purely  because  the 
admirable  creal  ore  is  in  existence  ?  " 

Clara  shook  her  head  :  she  could  not  say  :  she  was  dizzy. 
She  had  spoken  out  more  than  she  had  ever  spoken  to  her- 
self  :  and  in  doing  so  she  had  cast  herself  a  step  beyond  the 
line  she  dared  to  contemplate. 

"I  wont  detain  you  any  longer,"  said  Mrs.  Mountstuart. 
44  The  more  we  learn,  the  more  we  are  taught  that  we  are 
not  so  wise  as  we  thought  we  were.  I  have  to  go  to  school 
to  Lady  Bnsshe!  I  really  took  you  for  a  very  clever  girl. 
If  you  change  again,  you  will  notify  the  important  circum- 
Btance  to  me,  I  t  rust.' 

■•  I  will,"  said  Clara,  and  no  violent  declaration  of  the  im- 
possibility of  her  changeing  again  would  have  had  such  an 
effect  <>n  her  hearer. 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  scanned  her  face  for  a  new  reading  of  it 
to  match  with  her  later  impressions. 

"  1  am  to  do  as  I  please  with  the  knowledge  I  have 
gained  ?  " 

14 1  am  utterly  in  your  hands,  madam." 
44  I  have  not  meant  to  be  unkind." 
44  You  have  not  been  unkind  ;  I  could  embrace  you." 
44 1  am  rather  too  shattered,  and  kissing  won't  put  me 
together.     I  laughed  at  Lady  Bnsshe!     No  wonder  you  went 
off  like  a  rocket  with  a  disappointing  bouquet  when  I  told 
you  you  had  been  successful  with  poor  Sir  Willoughby  and 
he  could  not  give  you  up.     1  noticed  that.      A  woman   like 
Lady  Bnsshe,  always  prying  for  the  lamentable,  would  have 
required  no  further  enlightenment.     Has  he  a  temper  ?  " 

Clara  did  not  ask  her  to  signalize  the  person  thus  abruptly 
obtruded. 

"  He  lia^  faults,"  she  said. 

"  There's  an  end  to  Sir  Willoughby,  then  !  Though  I 
don't  say  he  will  give  you  up  even  when  he  hears  the  worst, 
if  he  must  hear  it.  as  for  his  own  sake  he  should.  And  I 
won't  say  he  ought  to  give  you  up.  He'll  be  the  pitiable 
angel  if  he  does.  For  you — but  you  don't  deserve  compli- 
ments;  they  would  be  immoral.  You  have  behaved  badly, 
badly,  badly.  I  have  never  had  such  a  right-about-face  in 
my  Life.  Von  will  deserve  the  stigma:  you  will  be  notorious: 
you  will  be  called  Number  Two.     Think  of  that  !     Not  even 


MISS  MIDDLETON  ANP  MRS.  MOUNTSTUART.  355 

original !     We  will  break  the  conference,  or  I  shall  twaddle 
to  extinction.     I  think  I  heard  the  luncheon  bell." 

"  It  rang." 

"  You  don't  look  fit  for  company,  but  you  had  better 
come." 

"  Oh  !  yes  :  every  day  it's  the  same." 

"  Whether  you're  in  my  hands  or  I'm  in  yours,  we're  a 
couple  of  arch-conspirators  against  the  peace  of  the  family 
whose  table  we're  sitting  at,  and  the  more  we  rattle  the  viler 
we  are,  but  we  must  do  it  to  ease  our  minds.  ' 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  spread  the  skirts  of  her  voluminous 
dress,  remarking  further:  "At  a  certain  age  our  teachers 
are  young  people  :  we  learn  by  looking  backward.  It  speaks 
highly  for  me  that  I  have  not  called  you  mad. — Full  of 
faults,  goodish-looking,  not  a  bad  talker,  cheerful,  poorish  ; 
—and  she  prefers  that  to  this  !  "  the  great  lady  exclaimed 
in  her  reverie  while  emerging  from  the  circle  of  shrubs  upon 
a  view  of  the  Hall. 

Colonel  De  Craye  advanced  to  her;  certainly  good-looking, 
certainly  cheerful,  by  no  means  a  bad  talker,  nothing  of  a 
Croesus,  and  variegated  with  faults. 

His  laughing  smile  attacked  the  irresolute  hostility  of  her 
mien,  confident  as  the  sparkle  of  sunlight  in  a  breeze.  The 
effect  of  it  on  herself  angered  her  on  behalf  of  Sir  Wil- 
loughby's  bride. 

"  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Mountstuart ;  I  believe  I  am  the 
last  to  greet  you." 

"  And  how  long  do  you  remain  here,  Colonel  De  Craye  ?  " 

"  I  kissed  earth  when  I  arrived,  like  the  Norman  William, 
and  consequently  I've  an  attachment  to  the  soil,  ma'am." 
'  You  are  not  going  to  take  possession  of  it,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"A  handful  would  satisfy  me  !  " 

"You  play  the  Conqueror  pretty  much,  I  have  heard. 
Uut  property  is  held  more  sacred  than  in  the  times  of  the 
Norman  William." 

"  And  speaking  of  property,  Miss  Micldleton,  your  purse 
is  found,"  he  said. 

"  I  know  it  is,"  she  replied,  as  unaffectedly  as  Mrs.  Mount- 
stuart  could  have  desired,  though  the  ingenuous  air  of  the 
girl  incensed  her  somewhat. 

Clara  passed  on. 

"  You  restore  purses,"  observed  Mrs.  Mountstuart. 

2  a  ■> 


350  THE  EGOIST. 

Her  stress  on  the  word,  and  her  look,  thrilled  De  Craye; 
for  there  had  been  a  long  conversation  between  the  young 
lady  and  the  dame. 

';  It  was  an  article  that  dropped  and  was  not  stolen," 
said  he. 

"  Barely  sweet  enough  to  keep,  then  !  " 

"1  think  I  could  have  felt  to  it  like  poor  Flitch,  the 
flyman,  -who  was  the  linder." 

"  If  you  are  conscious  of  these  ^captations  to  appropriate 
wh;it  is  not  your  own,  you  should  quit  the  neighbourhood." 

"  And  do  it  elsewhere  r1    But  that's  not  virtuous  counsel." 

"  And  I'm  not  counselling  in  the  interests  of  your  virtue, 
Colonel  De  Crave." 

"  And  I  dared  for  a  moment  to  hope  that  you  were, 
ma'am,"  he  said,  ruefully  drooping. 

They  were  close  to  the  dining-room  window,  and  Mrs. 
Mountstuart  preferred  the  terminating  of  a  dialogue  that 
did  nut  promise  to  leave  her  features  the  austerely  iron  cast 
with  which  she  had  commenced  it.  She  was  under  the  spell 
of  pratitude  for  his  behaviour  yesterday  evening  at  her 
dinner-table;  she  could  not  be  very  severe. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

ANIMATED  CONVKRSAT10N  AT  A  LUNCHEON-TABLE. 

Verncv  was  erasing  the  hall  to  the  dining-room  as  Mrs. 
Mountstuari  stepped  in.  She  called  to  him:  "Are  the 
champions  reconciled  ?  " 

He  replied:  "  Hardly  that,  but  they  have  consented  to 
meet  at  an  altar  to  offer  up  a  victim  to  the  Gods,  in  the  shape 
ot  modern  poetic  imitations  of  the  classical." 

'That    seems   innocent   enough.      The  professor  has  not 
been  anxious  about  his  ch  st  ?  " 

'•  He  recollects  his  cough  now  and  then." 

"You  must  help  him  to  forget  it." 


CONVERSATION  AT  A  LUNCHEON-TABLE.  357 

"Lady  Busshe  and  Lady  Culmer  are  here,"  said  Vernon, 
not  supposing  it  to  be  a  grave  announcement  until  the  effect 
of  it  on  Mrs.  Mountstuart  admonished  him. 

She  dropped  her  voice  :  "  Engage  my  fair  friend  for  one 
of  your  walks  the  moment  we  rise  from  table.  You  may 
have  to  rescue  her  ;.but  do.     I  mean  it." 

"  She's  a  capita]  walker,"  Vernon  remarked  in  simpleton 
style. 

"  There's  no  necessity  for  any  of  your  pedestrian  feats," 
Mrs.  Mountstuart  said,  and  let  him  go,  turning  to  Colonel 
De  Craye  to  pronounce  an  encomium  on  him  :  "  The  most 
open-minded  man  I  know!  Warranted  to  do  perpetual 
service  and  no  mischief.  If  you  were  all  ...  .  instead  of 
catching  at  every  prize  you  covet !  Yes,  you  would  have 
your  reward  for  unselfishness,  I  assure  you.  Yes,  and  where 
you  seek  it !     That  is  what  none  of  you  men  will  believe." 

'  When  you  behold  me  in  your  own  livery  !  "  cried  the 
colonel. 

"Do  I  ?  "  said  she  dallying  with  a  half-formed  design  to 
be  confidential.  "  How  is  it  one  is  always  tempted  to 
address  you  in  the  language  of  innuendo  ?     I  can't  guess." 

"  Except  that  as  a  dog  doesn't  comprehend  good  English 
we  naturally  talk  bad  to  him." 

The  great  lady  was  tickled.  Who  could  help  being 
amused  by  this  man  ?  And  after  all,  if  her  fair  Middleton 
chose  to  be  a  fool,  there  could  be  no  gainsaying  her,  sorry 
though  poor  Sir  Willoughby's  friends  must  feel  for  him. 

She  tried  not  to  smile. 

"  You  are  too  absurd.    Or  a  baby,  you  might  have  added." 

"  I  hadn't  the  daring." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Colonel  De  Craye,  I  shall  end  by 
falling  in  love  with  you ;  and  without  esteeming  you,  I 
fear." 

'  The  second  follows  as  surely  as  the  flavour  upon  a 
draught  of  Bacchus,  if  you'll  but  toss  off  the  glass,  ma'am." 

"  We  women,  sir,  think  it  should  be  first." 

"  'Tis  to  transpose  the  seasons,  and  give  October  the 
blossom,  and  April  the  apple,  and  no  sweet  one !  Esteem's 
a  mellow  thing  that  comes  after  bloom  and  fire,  like  an 
evening  at  home ;  because  if  it  went  before  it  would  have  no 
father  and  couldn't  hope  for  progeny  ;  for  there'd  be  no 
nature  the   business.      So   please,   ma'am,  keep    to    the 


358  THE  EGOIST. 

original  order,  and  you'll  be  nature's  child  and  I  tlie  most 
Mi  si  of  mankind." 

•  Really,  were  I  fifteen  years  younger.  I  am  not  so 
certain  ....  1  might  try  and  make  you  harmless." 

"  Draw  the  teeth  of  the  lamb  so  long  as  you  pet  him !  " 

"  I  challenged  you,  colonel,  and  I  won't  complain  of  your 
pitch.  But  now  lay  your  wit  down  beside  your  candour  and 
descend  to  au  everyday  level  with  me  for  a  minute." 

"  Is  it  innuendo  ?  " 

"  No,  though  I  dare  say  it  would  be  easier  for  you  to 
respond  to,  if  it  were." 

•  I'm  the  stiaightforwardest  of  men  at  a  word  of  com- 
mand." 

"  This  is  a  whisper.  Be  alert  as  you  were  last  night. 
Shuffle  the  table  well.  A  little  liveliness  will  do  it.  I  don't 
imagine  malice,  but  there's  curiosity,  which  is  often  as  bad, 
ami  not  so  lightly  foiled.  We  have  Lady  Busshe  and  Lady 
Culmer  here." 

"  To  Bweep  the  cobwebs  out  of  the  sky  !  " 

"  Well,  then,  can  you  fence  with  broomsticks  ?" 

"  I  have  had  a  bout  with  them  in  my  time." 

"  They  are  terribly  direct." 

"They  'give  point,'  as  Napoleon  commanded  his  cavalry 
to  do."  * 

"  You  must  help  me  to  ward  it." 

"  They  will  require  variety  in  the  conversation." 

"Constant.  You  are  an  angel  of  intelligence,  and  if  I  havo 
the  jndgeing  of  you,  I'm  afraid  you'll  be  allowed  to  pass,  in 
Bpite  of  the  scandal  above.  Open  the  door;  I  don't  un- 
bonnet." 

I  )c  Crave  threw  the  door  open. 

Lady  Busshe  was  at  that  moment  saying:  "And  are  wo 
indeed  to  have  yx>u  Eor  a  neighbour,  Dr.  Middleton?  " 

The  Rev.  doctor's  reply  was  drowned  by  the  new 
arrivals. 

11 1  thought  you  had  forsaken  us,"  observed  Sir  Wril- 
longhby  to  Mrs.  Mountstuart. 

•  And    run    away    with    Colonel     De    Crave  ?       I'm     too 
weighty,  my  dear  friend.     Besides,  I  have  not  looked  at  the 

Iding-presents  yet." 

'  The  very  object  of  our  call !  "  exclaimed  Lady  Culmer. 
"  I  have  to  confess  I  am  in  dire  alarm  about  mine,"  Lady 


CONVERSATION  AT  A  LUNCHEON-TABLE.  359 

Busshe  nodded  across  the  table  at  Clara.  "  Oh  !  you  may 
shake  your  head,  but  I  would  rather  hear  a  rough  truth 
than  the  most  complimentary  evasion." 

"  How  would  you  define  a  rough  truth,  Dr.  Middleton  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Mountstuart. 

Like  the  trained  warrior  who  is  ready  at  all  hours  for  the 
trumpet  to  arms,  Dr.  Middleton  wakened  up  for  judicial 
allocution  in  a  trice. 

"  A  rough  truth,  madam,  I  should  define  to  be  that  de- 
scription of  truth  which  is  not  imparted  to  mankind  with- 
out a  powerful  impregnation  of  the  roughness  of  the  teller." 

"  It  is  a  rough  truth,  ma'am,  that  the  world  is  composed 
of  fools,  and  that  the  exceptions  are  knaves,"  Professor 
Crook lyn  furnished  the  example  avoided  by  the  Rev.  doctor. 

"  Not  to  precipitate  myself  into  the  jaws  of  the  first 
definition,  which  strikes  me  as  being  as  happy  as  Jonah's 
whale,  that  could  carry  probably  the  most  learned  man  of 
his  time  inside  without  the  necessity  of  digesting  him," 
said  De  Craye,  "  a  rough  truth  is  a  rather  strong  charge  of 
universal  nature  for  the  firing  off  of  a  modicum  of  personal 
fact." 

"  It  is  a  rough  truth  that  Plato  is  Moses  atticizing,"  said 
Vernon  to  Dr.  Middleton,  to  keep  the  diversion  alive. 

"  And  that  Aristotle  had  the  globe  under  his  cranium," 
rejoined  the  Rev.  doctor. 

"  And  that  the  modei'ns  live  on  the  ancients." 

"  And  that  not  one  in  ten  thousand  can  refer  to  the  par- 
ticular treasury  he  filches." 

"The  Art  of  our  days  is  a  revel  of  rough  truth,"  remarked 
Professor  Crooklyn. 

"  And  the  literature  has  laboriously  mastered  the  adjective, 
wherever  it  may  be  in  relation  to  the  noun,"  Dr.  Middleton 
added. 

"  Orson's  first  appearance  at  Court  was  in  the  figure  of  a 
rough  truth,  causing  the  Maids  of  Honour,  accustomed  to 
Tapestry  Adams,  astonishment  and  terror,"  said  De  Crave. 

That  he  might  not  be  left  out  of  the  sprightly  play,  Sir 
Willoughby  levelled  a  lance  at  the  quintain,  smiling  on 
Lastitia :  "  In  fine,  caricature  is  rough  truth." 

{She  said :  "  Is  one  end  of  it,  and  realistic  directness  is 
the  other." 

He  bowed  :  "  The  palm  is  yours." 


3G0  THE  EGOIST. 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  admired  herself  as  each  one  trotted 
forth  in  mm  characteristically,  with  one  exception  unaware 
of  the  aid  which  was  being  rendered  to  a  distressed  damsel 
wretchedly  incapable  of  decent  hypocrisy.  Her  intrepid 
lead  had  shown  her  hand  to  the  colonel  and  drawn  the 
enemy  at  a  blow. 

Sir  Willonghby's  'in  fine,'  howrever,  did  not  please  her: 
still  less  did  his  lackadaisical  Lothario-like  bowing  and 
smiling  to  Miss  Dale:  and  he,  anything  but  obtuse,  per- 
ceived it  and  was  hart.  For  how,  carrying  his  tremendous 
load,  was  he  to  compete  with  these  unhandicapped  men  in 
the  game  of  nonsense  she  had  such  a  fondness  for  starting 
at  a  table  ?  He  was  further  annoyed  to  hear  Miss  Eleanor 
and  Miss  [sabel  Patterae  agree  together,  that  "caricature" 
was  the  final  word  of  the  definition.  Relatives  should  know 
better  than  to  deliver  these  awards  to  us  in  public. 

'Well!  '  quoth  Lady  Busshe,  expressive  of  stupefaction 
at  the  strange  dust  she  had  raised. 

"Are  they  on  view,  Miss  Middleton?"  inquired  Lady 
Calmer. 

'  Them's  a  regiment  of  us  on  view  and  ready  for  in-« 
Bpection,"  Colonel  De  Craye  bowed  to  her,  but  she  would 
aoi  be  foiled.  "Miss  Middleton's  admirers  are  always  on 
view,"  said  he. 

■l  Are  they  to  be  seen  ?  "  said  Lady  Busshe. 

Clara  made  her  face  a  question,  with  a  laudable  smooth- 

'  The  wedding-presents,"  Lady  Culmer  explained. 

"Otherwise,  my  dear,  we  are  in  dangerof  duplicating  and 
triplicating  and  quadruplicating,  not  at  all  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  the  bride. 

Bat  there  h  a  worse  danger  to  encounter  in  the  'on  view,* 
my  lady,"  said  De  Cray.';  "and  that's  the  magnetic  at- 
traction a  display  of  wedding-presents  is  sure  to  have  for 
,Im'  ineffable  burglar,  who  must  have  a  nuptial  soul  in  him, 
wherever  there's  that  colleciion  on  view,  he's  never  a 
ne  off.  And  'tis  said  he  knows  a  lady's  dressing-ca:,o 
presented  to  her  on  the  occasion,  fifteen  years  alter  the 
event."  J 

"  As  many  as  fifteen  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mountstuart. 

"By  computation  of  the  police.     And  if  the   presents  are 


CONVERSATION  AT  A  LUNCHEON- TABLE.  861 

on  view,  dogs  are  of  no  use,  nor  bolts,  nor  bars  : — lie's  worse 
tban  Cupid.     The  only  protection  to  be  found,  singular  as  it 
may  be  thought,  is   in   a   couple   of  bottles  of  the   oldest 
Jamaica  rum  in  the  British  Isles." 
"  Rum  ?  "  cried  Lady  Busshe. 

"  The  liquor  of  the  Royal  Navy,  my  lady.     And  with  your 
permission,  I'll  relate  the  tale  in  proof  of  it.     I  had  a  friend 
engaged 'to  a  young  lady,  niece  of  an  old  sea-captain  of  the 
old  school,  the  Benbow  school,  the  wooden  leg  and  pigtail 
school ;  a  perfectly  salt  old  gentleman  with  a  pickled  tongue, 
and  a  dash  of  brine  in  every  deed  he  committed.     He  looked 
rolled  over  to  you  by  the  last  wave  on  the  shore,  sparkling  : 
he  was  Neptune's  own  for  humour.     And  when  his  present 
to  the  bride  was  opened,  sure  enough  there  lay   a  couple  of 
bottles  of  the  oldest  Jamaica  rum  in  the  British  Isles,  born 
before    himself,   and   his  father  to  boot.       'Tis   a   fabulous 
spirit  I  beg  you  to  believe  in,  my  lady,  the  sole  merit  of   the 
story  being  its  portentous  veracity.     The  bottles  were  tied 
to  make  them  appear  twins,   as  they  both  had  the    same 
claim  to  seniority.     And  there  was  a  label  on  them,  telling 
their  great  age,  to  maintain  their  identity.      They   were  in 
truth    a  pair  of  patriarchal  bottles  rivalling  many  of  the 
biggest  houses  in  the  kingdom  for  antiquity.      They  would 
have  made  the  donkey  that  stood  between  the  two  bundles 
of  hay  look  at  them  with  obliquity  :  supposing  him  to  have, 
for  an  animal,  a  rum  taste,  and   a  turn  for  hilarity.     Won- 
derful old  bottles !     So,  on  the  label,  just  over  the  date,  was 
written  large ;  Uncle  Benjamin's  Wedding-Pkesent  to  his 
niece  Bessy.     Poor  Bessy  shed  tears  of  disappointment  and 
indignation  enough  to  float  the  old  gentleman  on  his  native 
element,  ship  and  all.    She  vowed  it  was  done  curmudgeonly 
to  vex  her,  because  her  uncle  hated  wedding-presents   and 
had  grunted  at  the  exhibition  of  cups  and  saucers,  and  this 
and    that    beautiful   service,   and   epergnes    and  inkstands, 
mirrors,   knives  and   forks,  dressing-cases,    and  the    whole 
mighty  category.      She  protested,  she  flung  herself  about, 
she  declared  those  two  ugly  bottles  should  not  join   the   ex- 
hibition in  the  dining-room,  where  it  was  laid  out  for  days, 
and   the  family  ate  their  meals  where  they  could,  on  the 
walls,    like  flies.      But    there    was   also    Uncle    Benjamin's 
legacy  on  view,  in  the  distance,  so  it  was  ruled  against  her 
that  the  bottles   should  have    their  place.       And    one    fine 


3G2  THE  EGOIST. 

morning  down  came  t"he  family  after  a  fearful  row  of  the 
domestics;  shouting,  screaming,  cries  for  the  police,  and 
murder  topping  all.  What  did  they  see  ?  They  saw  two 
prodigious  burglars  extended  along  the  floor,  each  with  one 
bfthe  twin  bottles  in  his  hand,  and  a  remainder  of^  the 
horror  of  the  midnight  hanging  about  his  person  like  a 
blown  fog,  sufficient  to  frighten  them  whilst  they  kicked  the 
rascals  entirely  intoxicated.  Never  was  wilder  disorder  of 
W( idding-presents,  and  not  one  lost! — owing,  you'll  own,  to 
Uncle  Benjy's  two  bottles  of  ancient  Jamaica  rum." 

Colonel  De  Craye  concluded  with  an  asseveration  of  the 
truth  of  the  story. 

"  A  most  provident  far-sighted  old  sea-captain !  "  ex- 
claimed  Mrs.  Mountstuart,  laughing  at  Lady  Busshe  and 
Lady  Culmer. 

These  ladies  chimed  in  with  her  gingerly. 
"And  have  you  many  more  clever   stories,  Colonel   De 
Craye  ?  "  said  Lady  Busshe. 

"  Ah  !  my  lady,  "when  the  tree  begins  to  count  its  gold  'tis 
ni^h  upon  bankruptcy." 

•  Poetic!"  ejaculated  Lady  Culmer,  spying  at  Miss  Mid- 
dleton's  rippled  countenance,  and  noting  that  she  and  Sir 
Willoughby  had  not  interchanged  word  or  look. 

"  But  that  in  the  case  of  your  Patterne  Port  a  bottle  of 
it  would  outvalue  the  catalogue  of  nuptial  presents,  Wil- 
loughby, I  would  recommend  your  stationing  some  such  con- 
stabulary to  keep  watch  and  ward,"  said  Dr.  Middleton  as 
he  filled  his  glass,  taking  Bordeaux  in  the  middle  of  the  day, 
under  a  consciousness  of  virtue  and  its  reward  to  come  at 
half-past  seven  in  the  evening. 

"  The  dogs  would  require  a  dozen  of  that,  sir,"  said  De 
Cra; 

•Tin  n  it  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  Indeed,  one!"  Dr. 
Middleton  negatived  the  idea. 

"We  are  no  further  advanced  than  when  we  began,"  ob- 
served Lady  Busshe. 

"If  we  are  marked  to  go  by  stages,"  Mrs.  Mountstuart 
assent-  d. 

•■  Why,  then,  we  shall  be  called  old  coaches,"  remarked  the 
colonel. 

"  You,"  said  Lady  Culmer,  "  have  the  advantage  of  us  in 
a  closer  acquaintance  with   Miss  Middleton.     You  know  he* 


CONVERSATION  AT  A  LUNCHEON- TABLE.        363 

tastes,  and  how  far  they  have  been  consulted  in  the  little 
souvenirs  already  grouped  somewhere,  although  not  yet  for 
inspection.  1  am  at  sea.  And  here  is  Lady  Busshe  in 
deadly  alarm.  There  is  plenty  of  time  to  effect  a  change — 
though  we  are  drawing  on  rapidly  to  the  fatal  day,  Miss 
Middleton.  We  are,  we  are  very  near  it.  Oh  !  yes.  I  am 
one  who  thinks  that  these  little  affairs  should  be  spoken  of 
openly,  without  that  ridiculous  bourgeois  affectation,  so  t*hat 
we  may  be  sure  of  giving  satisfaction.  It  is  a  transaction, 
like  everything  else  in  life.  I  for  my  part  wish  to  be  re- 
membered favourably.  I  put  it  as  a  test  of  breeding  to 
speak  of  these  things  as  plain  matter-of-fact.  You  marry  ;  I 
wish  you  to  have  something  by  you  to  remind  you  of  me. 
What  shall  it  be  ? — useful  or  ornamental.  For  an  ordinary 
household  the  choice  is  not  difficult.  But  where  wealth 
abounds  we  are  in  a  dilemma." 

"And  with  persons  of  decided  tastes,"  added  Lady  Busshe. 
"  I  am  really  very  unhappy,"  she  protested  to  Clara. 

Sir  Willoughby  dropped  Lastitia :  Clara's  look  of  a  sedate 
resolution  to  preserve  silence  on  the  topic  of  the  nuptial  gifts, 
made  a  diversion  imperative. 

"  Your  porcelain  was  exquisitely  chosen,  and  I  profess  to 
be  a  connoisseur,"  he  said.  "  I  am  poor  in  old  Saxony,  as  you 
know  :  I  can  match  the  county  in  Sevres,  and  my  inheritance 
of  China  will  not  easily  be  matched  in  the  country." 

"  You  may  consider  your  Dragon  vases  a  present  from 
young  Crossjay,"  said  De  Craye. 

"How?" 

"  Hasn't  he  abstained  from  breaking  them  ?  the  capital 
boy !  Porcelain  and  a  boy  in  the  house  together,  is  a  case  of 
prospective  disaster  fully  equal  to  Flitch  and  a  fly." 

"  You  should  understand  that  my  friend  Horace — whose 
wit  is  in  this  instance  founded  on  another  tale  of  a  boy — 
brought  us  a  magnificent  piece  of  porcelain,  destroyed  by  the 
capsizing  of  his  conveyance  from  the  station,"  said  Sir  Wil- 
loughby to  Lady  Busshe. 

She  and  Lady  Culmer  gave  out  lamentable  Ohs,  while 
Miss  Eleanor  and  Miss  Isabel  Patterne  sketched  the  incident. 
Then  the  lady  visitors  fixed  their  eyes  in  united  sympathy 
upon  Clara :  recovering  from  which,  after  a  contemplation 
of  marble,  Lady  Busshe  emphasized  :  "No,  you  do  not  love 
porcelain,  it  is  evident,  Miss  Middleton.' 


>> 


S64  THE  EGOIST. 

"  I  am  prlad  to  be  assured  of  it,"  said  Lady  Culmer. 

"  Oh  !  I  know  t  hat  face  :  I  know  that  look,"  Lady  Busshe 
affected  to  remark  rallyingly :  "it  is  not  the  first  time  I  have 
seen  it ." 

Sir  Willoughby  smarted  to  his  marrow.  "We  will  rout 
these  Fancies  of  an  over-scrupulous  generosity,  my  dear  Lady 
Busshe." 

I  Icr  unwonted  breach  of  delicacy  in  speaking  publicly  of 
her  present,  and  the  vulgar  persistency  of  her  sticking  to 
the  theme,  very  much  perplexed  him.  And  if  he  mistook 
her  not,  she  had  just  alluded  to  the  demoniacal  Constantia 
Dm  ham.  It  might  be  that  he  had  mistaken  her:  he  was 
on  guard  against  his  terrible  sensitiveness.  Nevertheless 
it  was  hard  to  account  for  this  behaviour  of  a  lady  greatly 
his  friend  and  admirer,  a  lady  of  birth.  And  Lady  Culmer 
as  well!  —likewise  a  lady  of  birth.  Were  they  in  collusion ? 
had  they  a  puspicion?  He  turned  to  Laetitia's  face  for  the 
antidote  to  his  pain. 

"Oh,  but  you  are  not  one  yet,  and  I  shall  require  two 
voices  to  convince  me,"  Lady  Busshe  rejoined  after  another 
re  at  t he  ma rble. 

•  Lady  Busshe,  I  beg  you  not  to  think  me  ungrateful," 
said  i  ilara. 

"Kiddle!  -gratitude!  it  is  to  please  your  taste,  to  satisfy 
I  care  for  -latitude  as  little  as  for  flattery." 

•  But  gratitude  is  flattering,"  said  Vernon. 
'Now,  do  metaphysics,  Mr.  Whitford." 

"Bui  do  care  a   bit  for  flattery,  my  lady,"  said  De  Craye. 

,llt'  finest  of  the  Arts;  we  might  call  'it  moral  sculpture. 

Adepts  in  it  can  cut  their  friends  to  any  shape  they  like  by 

practising  it  with  the  requisite  skill.      I  myself,  poor  hand 

:|-     Cam,     have    made    a     man    act    Solomon  by  constantly 

|         in-  his  wisdom.     Be  took  a  sagacious  turn  at  an  early 

"l    "''    '!"'  dose,      lie   wei-hed  the  smallest  question  of 

daily  occasions  with  a  deliberation  truly  oriental.    Had 

I    pushed    it,    he'd    have   hired    a    baby    and    a    couple     of 

mothers  bo  Bquabble  over  the  undivided  morsel." 

"  I  shall  hope  for  a  day  in  London  with  you,"  said  Lady 
Culinm-  to  (  'lara. 

'You  did  not  forget  the  Queen  of  Sheba?"  said  Mrs. 
Mountstuart  to  De  < 'rave. 


CONVERSATION  AT  A  LUNCHEON-TAELE.  365 

"  "With  her  appearance,  the  game  has  to  be  resigned  to  her 
entirely,"  he  rejoined. 

"  That  is,"  Lady  Culmer  continued,  "  if  you  do  not  despiso 
an  old  woman  for  your  comrade  on  a  shopping  excursion." 

"  Despise  whom   we   fleece !  "    exclaimed   Dr.   Middleton. 
"  Oh,  no,  Lady  Culmer,  the  sheep  is  sacred." 
"  I  am  not  so  sure,"  said  Vernon. 

"  In  what  way,  and  to  what  extent,  are  you  not  so  sure  ?  " 
said  Dr.  Middleton. 

"  The  natural  tendency  is  to  scorn  the  fleeced." 
"  I  stand  for  the  contrary.     Pity,  if  you  like:  particularly 
when  they  bleat." 

"  This  is  to  assume  that  makers  of  gifts  are  a  fleeced 
people  :  I  demur,"  said  Mrs.  Mountstuart. 

"Madam,  we  are  expected  to  give  ;  we  are  incited  to  give; 
you  have  dubbed  it  the  fashion  to  give  ;  and  the  person  re- 
fusing to  give,  or  incapable  of  giving,  may  anticipate  that 
he  will  be  regarded  as  benignly  as  a  sheep  of  a  drooping  and 
flaccid  wool  by  the  farmer,  who  is  reminded  by  the  poor 
beast's  appearance  of  a.  strange  dog  that  worried  the  flock. 
Even  Captain  Benjamin,  as  you  have  seen,  was  unable  to 
withstand  the  demand  on  him.  The  hymeneal  pair  are 
licensed  freebooters  levying  black  mail  on  us  ;  survivors  of  an 
uncivilized  period.  But  in  taking  without  n.ercy,  I  venture 
to  trust  that  the  manners  of  a  happier  aera  instruct  them  not 
to  scorn  us.  1  apprehend  that  Mr.  Whitford  has  a  lower 
order  of  latrons  in  his  mind." 

"  Permit  me  to  say,  sir,  that  you  have  not  considered  the 
ignoble  aspect  of  the  fleeced,"  said  Vernon.  "  I  appeal  to 
the  ladies  :  would  they  not,  if  they  beheld  an  ostrich  walking 
down  a  Queen's  Drawing  Room,  clean-plucked,  despise  him 
though  they  were  wearing  his  plumes  ?  " 

"An  extreme  supposition  indeed,"  said  Dr.  Middleton, 
frowning  over  it  :  "  scarcely  legitimately  to  be  suggested." 

"  I  think  it  fair,  sir,  as  an  instance." 

"  Has  the  circumstance  occurred,  I  would  ask  ?  " 

"In  life  ?  a  thousand  times." 

"  I  fear  so,"  said  Mrs.  Mountstuart. 

Lady  Busshe  showed  symptoms  of  a  desire  to  leave  a 
profitless  table. 

Vernon  started  up,  glancing  at  the  window. 

"  Did  you  see  Crossjay  ?  "  he  said  to  Clara. 


8GG  THK   StiOIST. 

"  No  ;  I  must,  if  lie  is  there,"  said  she. 

She  made  her  waj  out,  Vernon  after  her.  They  both  had 
the  excuse. 

'•  Which  way  did  the  poor  boy  go  ?  "  she  asked  him. 

"  1  have  not  the  slightest  idea,"  he  replied.  "  But  put  on 
your  bonnet,  if  you  would  escape  that  pan-  of  inquisitors." 

••  Mr.  Whitford,  what  humiliation!' 

"  I  suspect  you  do  not  feel  it  the  most,  and  the  end  of  it 
can't  be  remote,"  said  he. 

Thus  it  happened  that  when  Ladv  Bushe  and  Lady 
Culmer  quitted  the  dining-room,  Miss  Middleton  had  spirited 
herself  away  from  summoning  voice  and  messenger. 

Sir  Willough  by  apologized  for  her  absence.  "If  I  could 
be  jealous,  it  would  be  of  that  boy  Crossjay." 

"  Vnii  are  an  excellent  man,  and  the  best  of  cousins,"  was 
Lady  Busshe's  enigmatical  answer. 

The  exceedingly  lively  conversation  at  bis  table  was  lauded 
by  Lady  Culmer. 

"  Though,"  said  she,  "  what  it  all  meant,  and  what  was  the 
drift  of  it,  1  couldn't  tell  to  save  my  life.  Is  it  every  day 
the  same  with  you  here  ?  " 

"  Very  much." 

"  How  you  must  enjoy  a  spell  of  dulness  !  " 

"  If  you  said,  simplicity  and  not  talking  for  effect !  I  gene- 
rally caBl  anchor  by  Lsetitia  Dale." 

"Ah!  '  Lady  Busshe  coughed.  "But  the  fact  is,  Mrs. 
Mountstuart  is  mad  for  cleverness." 

"  I  think,  my  lady,  Lsetitia  Dale  is  to  the  full  as  clever  as 
any  of  the  star-;  Mrs.  Mountstuart  assembles,  or  I." 

"Talkative  cleverness,  I  mean." 

"  In  conversation  as  well.  Perhaps  you  have  not  yet  given 
her  a  chance" 

"  V  -,  she  is  clever,  of    course,  poor    dear.     She  is 

looking  better  too." 

"  Handsome,  I  thought,"  said  Lady  Culmer. 

"She  varies,"  observed  Sir  Willoughby. 

The  ladies  took  scat  in  their  carriage  and  fell  at  once  into 
a  close-bonnet  colloquy.  Not  a  single  allusion  had  they  made 
to  the  wedding-presents  after  leaving  the  luncheon-table. 
The  cause  of  their  visit  was  obvious. 


CLEVER  FENCING  AND  THE  NEED  FOR  IT.  367 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

CONTAIN  CLEVER  FENCING  AND  INTIMATIONS  OF  THE  NESD 

FOR  IT. 

That  woman,  Lady  Busslie,  had  predicted,  after  the  event, 
Constantia  Durham's  defection.  She  had  also,  subsequent 
to  Willoughby's  departure  on  his  travels,  uttered  sceptical 
things  concerning  his  rooted  attachment  to  Lsetitia  Dale.  In 
her  bitter  vulgarity,  that  beaten  rival  of  Mrs.  Mountstuart 
Jenkinson  for  the  leadership  of  the  county  had  taken  his  nose 
for  a  melancholy  prognostic  of  his  fortunes  ;  she  had  recently 
played  on  his  name :  she  had  spoken  the  hideous  English  of 
his  fate.  Little  as  she  knew,  she  was  alive  to  the  worst  in- 
terpretation of  appearances.  No  other  eulogy  occurred  to 
her  now  than  to  call  him  the  best  of  cousins,  because  Vernon 
Whitford  was  housed  and  clothed  and  fed  by  him.  She  had 
nothing  else  to  say  for  a  man  she  thought  luckless  !  She  was 
a  woman  barren  of  wit,  stripped  of  style,  but  she  was  wealthy 
and  a  gossip — a  forge  of  showering  sparks — and  she  carried 
Lady  Culmer  with  her.  The  two  had  driven  from  his  house 
to  spread  the  malignant  rumour  abroad  :  already  they  blew 
the  biting  world  on  his  raw  wound.  Neither  of  them  was 
like  Mrs.  Mountstuart,  a  witty  woman,  who  could  be  hood- 
winked ;  they  were  dull  women,  who  steadily  kept  on  their 
own  scent  of  the  fact,  and  the  only  way  to  confound  such 
inveterate  forces  was,  to  be  ahead  of  them,  and  seize  and 
transform  the  expected  fact,  and  astonish  them,  when  they 
came  up  to  him,  with  a  totally  unanticipated  fact. 

"  You  see,  you  were  in  error,  ladies." 

"  And  so  we  were,  Sir  Willoughby,  and  we  acknowledge 
it.     We  never  could  have  guessed  that!" 

Thus  the  phantom  couple  in  the  future  delivered  them- 
selves, as  Avell  they  might  at  the  revelation.  He  could 
run  far  ahead. 

Ay,  but  to  combat  these  dolts,  facts  had  to  be  encountered, 
deeds  done,  in  groaning  earnest.  These  representatives  of 
the  pig-sconces  of  the  population  judged  by  circumstances  : 
airy  shows  and  seems  had  no  effect  on  them.  Dexterity  of 
fence  was  thrown  away. 


80S  THE  EGOIST. 

A  flying  peep  at  the  remorseless  might  of  dulness  in  com. 
pelling  us  to  a  concrete  performance  counter  to  our  inclina- 
8,  if  we  would  deceive  its  terrible  instinct,  gave  Wil- 
loughby  for  a  moment  the  survey  of  a  sage.  His  intensity 
of  personal  feeling  struck  so  vivid  an  illumination  of  man- 
kit  d  at  intervals  that  he  would  have  been  individually  wise, 
had  he  i  D  moved  by  the  source  of  his  accurate  percep- 

tions to  a  personal  feeling  of  opposition  to  his  own  sagacity, 
lb'  loathed  and  he  despised  the  vision,  so  his  mind  had  no 
benefit  of  it,  though  he  himself  was  whipped  along.  He 
chose  rather  (and  the  choice  is  open  to  us  all)  to  be  flattered 
by  the  distinction  it  revealed  between  himself  and  mankind. 

Hut  if  he  was  not  as  others  were,  why  was  he  discomfited, 
solicitous,  miserable  P  To  think  that  it  should  be  so,  ran 
dead  against  his  conqueror's  theories  wherein  he  had  been 
trained,  which,  so  long  as  he  gained  success  awarded  success 
to  native  merit,  grandeur  to  the  grand  in  soul,  as  light  kindles 
light  :  nature  presents  the  example.  His  early  training,  his 
bright  beginning  of  life,  had  taught  him  to  look  to  earth's 
principal  fruits  as  his  natural  portion,  and  it  was  owing  to 
a  Lrirl  that  he  stood  a  mark  for  tongues,  naked,  wincing  at 
the  le   malignity  of  a  pair  of  harridans.     Why  not 

whistle  the  girl  aw  a  -    : 

Why.  then  he  would  be  free  to  enjoy,  careless,  younger 
than  his  youth  in  the  rebound  to  happiness! 

And  then  would  his  nostrils  begin  to  lilt  and  sniff  at  the 
i  ping  up  of  a  thick  pestiferous  vapour.  Then  in  that 
volume  of  stench  would  he  discern  the  sullen  yellow  eye  of 
malice.  A  malarious  earth  would  hunt  him  all  over  it.  The 
ith  of  the  world,  the  world's  view  of  him,  was  partly  his 
vital  breath,  his  view  of  himself.  The  ancestry  of  the  tor- 
hired  man  had  bequeathed  him  this  condition  of  high  civili- 
an among  their  other  bequests.  Your  withered  contracted 
'  E  3ts  of  the  hut  and  the  grot  reck  not  of  public  opinion; 
they  crave  but  for  liberty  ami  leisure  to  scratch  themselves 
and  soothe  an  excessive  scratch.  Willoughby  was  expansive, 
a  blooming  one,  born  to  Look  down  upon  a  tributary  world, 
and  to  exult  in  being  looked  to.  Do  we  wonder  at  his  con- 
Bteination  in  the'  prospect  of  that  world's  blowing  foul  on 
him  ?  Princes  have  their  obligations  to  teach  them  they  are 
mortal,  and  the  brilliant  heir  of  a  tributary  world  is  equally 
enchained  by  the  homage  it  brings  him: — more,  inasmuch  as 


CLEVER  FENCING  AND  THE  NEED  FOR  IT.  3G9 

it  is  immaterial,  elusive,  not  gathered  by  the  tax,  and  he 
cannot  capitally  punish  the  treasonable  recusants.  Still 
must  he  be  brilliant ;  he  must  court  his  people.  He  must 
ever,  both  in  his  reputation  and  his  person,  aching  though 
he  be,  show  them  a  face  and  a  leg. 

The  wounded  gentleman  shut  himself  up  in  his  laboratory, 
where  he  could  stride  to  and  fro,  and  stretch  out  his  arms 
for  physical  relief,  secure  from  observation  of  his  fantastical 
shapes,  under  the  idea  that  he  was  meditating.  There  was 
perhaps  enough  to  make  him  fancy  it  in  the  heavy  fire  of 
shots  exchanged  between  his  nerves  and  the  situation;  there 
were  notable  flashes.  He  would  not  avow  that  he  was  in  an 
agony:  it  was  merely  a  desire  for  exercise. 

Quintessence  of  worldliness,  Mrs.  Mountstuart  appeared 
through  his  farthest  window,  swinging  her  skirts  on  a  turn 
at  the  end  of  the  lawn,  with  Horace  De  Craye  smirking 
beside  her.  And  the  woman's  vaunted  penetration  was  unable 
to  detect  the  histrionic  Irishism  of  the  fellow.  Or  she  liked 
him  for  his  acting  and  nonsense  ;  nor  she  only.  The  voluble 
beast  was  created  to  snare  women.  Willoughby  became 
smitten  with  an  adoration  of  stedfastness  in  women.  The 
incarnation  of  that  divine  quality  crossed  his  eyes.  She 
was  clad  in  beauty. 

A  horrible  nondescript  convulsion  composed  of  yawn  and 
groan  drove  him  to  his  instruments,  to  avert  a  renewal  of 
the  shock  ;  and  while  arranging  and  fixing  them  for  their 
unwonted  task,  he  compared  himself  advantageously  with 
men  like  Vernon  and  De  Craye,  and  others  of  the  county, 
his  fellows  in  the  hunting-field  and  on  the  Magistrate's 
bench,  who  neither  understood  nor  cared  for  solid  work, 
beneficial  practical  work,  the  work  of  Science. 

He  was  obliged  to  relinquish  it :  his  hand  shook. 

"Experiments  will  not  advance  much  at  this  rate,"  he 
said,  casting  the  noxious  retardation  on  his  enemies. 

It  was  not  to  be  contested  that  he  must  speak  with  Mrs. 
Mountstuart,  however  he  might  shrink  from  the  trial  of  his 
facial  muscles.  Her  not  coming  to  him  seemed  ominous  : 
nor  was  her  behaviour  at  the  luncheon-table  quite  obscure. 
She  had  evidently  instigated  the  gentlemen  to  cross  and 
counter-chatter  Lady  Busshe  and  Lady  Culmer.  For  what 
purpose  ? 

Clara's  features  gave  the  answer. 

2  B 


370  TT1F,  '--flOIST. 

They  were  implacable.     And  he  could  be  the  same. 

In  the  solitude  of  his  room  he  cried  right  out:  "1  swoar 
it,  I  will  never  yield  her  to  Horace  De  Crave!  She  shall 
feel  some  of  my  torments,  and  try  to  get  the  better  of  them 
by  knowing  she  deserves  them."  lie  had  spoken  it,  and  it 
was  an  oath  upon  the  record. 

Desire  to  do  her  intolerable  hurt  became  an  ecstasy  in  his 
veins,  and  produced  another  stretching  fit  that  terminated 
in  a  violent  shake  of  the  body  and  limbs  ;  during  which  he 
was  a  spectacle  for  !Mrs.  Mountstuart  at  one  of  the  windows. 
He  langhed  as  he  went  to  her,  Baying:  "  Xo,  no  work  to- 
day :  it  won't  be  done,  positively  refuses." 

"I  am  taking  the  professor  away,"  said  she;  "he  is 
fidgetty  about  the  cold  he  caught." 

Sir  Willonghby  stepped  out  to  her.  "I  was  trying  at  a 
bit  of  work  for  an  hour,  not  to  be  idle  all  day.  ' 

"  You  work  in  that  den  of  yours  every  day  p" 

"  Never  less  than  an  hour,  if  I  can  snatch  it." 

"It  is  a  wonderful  resource  !" 

The  remark  set  him  throbbing  and  thinking  that  a  pro- 
Longation  of  his  crisis  exposed  him  to  the  approaches  of 
some  onranic  malady,  possibly  heart-disease. 

"  A  habit,"  he  said.     "  Tn  there  I  throw  off  the  world." 

"  We  shall  see  some  results  in  due  time." 

"I  promise  none:  I  like  to  be  abreast  of  the  real  know- 
ledge of  my  day.  thai   is  all." 

'•  And  a  pearl  among  country  gentlemen  !" 

"  In  yonr  gracions  consideration,  my  clear  lady.  Gene- 
rally speaking,  it  would  be  more  adviseable  to  become  a 
chatterer  and  keep  an  anecdotal  note-book.  I  could  not  do 
it,  simply  because  I  could  not  live  with  my  own  emptiness 
for  the  sake  of  making  an  occasional  display  of  fireworks. 
I  aim  at  solidity.     It  is  a  narrow  aim,  no  doubt;  not  much 

appreciated." 

••  ha  titia  Dale  appreciates  it." 

A  smile  of  enforced  ruefulness,  like  a  leaf  curling  in  heat, 
wrinkled  hifl  mouth. 

Why  did  she  ■  ik  of  her  conversation  with  Clara? 

"'  Have  th<  _ht  Crossjay  P"  he  said. 

•  Apparently  the  iving  chase  to  him." 

The  likelihood  was,  that  Clara  had  been  overcome  by 
timidity. 


CLEVER  FENCING  AND  THE  NEED  FOR  IT.  371 

"  Must  you  leave  us  ?" 

"  I  think  it  prudent  to  take  Professor  Crooklyn  away." 

«  He  still  ....  ?" 

"  The  extraordinary  resemblance  !" 

"  A  word  aside  to  Dr.  Middleton  will  dispel  that." 

"You  are  thoroughly  good." 

This  hateful  encomium  of  commiseration  transfixed  him. 
Then,  she  knew  of  his  calamity ! 

"  Philosophical,"  he  said,  "  would  be  the  proper  term,  I 
think." 

"  Colonel  De  Craye,  by  the  way,  promises  me  a  visit  when 
he  leaves  you." 

"  To-morrow  ?" 

"  The  earlier  the  better.  He  is  too  captivating ;  he  is 
delightful.  He  won  me  in  five  minutes.  I  don't  accuse 
him.  Nature  gifted  him  to  cast  the  spell.  We  are  weak 
women,  Sir  Willoughby." 

She  knew ! 

"  Like  to  like  :  the  witty  to  the  witty,  ma'am." 

"  You  won't  compliment  me  with  a  little  bit  of  jealousy  ?" 

"I  forbear  from  complimenting  him." 

"  Be  philosophical,  of  course,  if  you  have  the  philosophy." 

"  I  pretend  to  it.  Probably  I  suppose  myself  to  succeed 
because  I  have  no  great  requirement  of  it ;  I  cannot  say. 
We  are  riddles  to  ourselves." 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  pricked  the  turf  with  the  point  of  her 
parasol.     She  looked  down  and  she  looked  up. 

"  Well  ?"  said  he  to  her  eyes. 

"  Well,  and  where  is  Last  tia  Dale  ?" 

He  turned  about  to  show  his  face  elsewhere. 

When  he  fronted  her  again,  she  looked  very  fixedly,  and 
set  her  head  shaking. 

"  It  will  not  do,  my  dear  Sir  Willoughby  !'* 

"  What  ?" 

"  It." 

"  I  never  could  solve  enigmas." 

"  Playing  ta-ta-ta-ta  ad  infinitum,  then.  Things  have 
gone  far.  All  parties  would  be  happier  for  an  excursion. 
Send  her  home." 

"  Lastitia  ?     I  can't  part  with  her." 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  put  a  tooth  on  her  under-lip  as  her  head 
renewed  its  brushing  negative. 


2  b  2 


372  THE  EGOIST. 

"  In  what  way  can  it  be  hurtful  that  she  should  be  here, 
ma'am  ?"  he  ventured  to  persist. 
••Think." 
"  She  is  proof." 
"  Twice  !" 

The  word  was  big  artillery.  He  tried  the  affectation  of  a 
staring  stupidity.  She  might  have  seen  his  heart  thump, 
and  he  quitted  the  mask  for  an  agreeable  grimace. 

"  She  is   inaccessible.      She  is  my  friend.      I  guarantee 
her,  on  my  honour.     Have  no  fear  for  her.     I  beg  you  to 
have  contiilence  in  me.     I  would  perish  rather.     No  soul  on 
earth  is  to  be  compared  with  her." 
Mrs.  Mountstuart  repeated  "Twice!" 

The  low  monosyllable,  musically  spoken  in  the  same  tone 
of  warning  of  a  gentle  ghost,  rolled  a  thunder  that  mad- 
dened him,  but  he  dared  not  take  it  up  to -fight  against  it  on 
plain  terms. 

"  Is  it  for  mv  sake  ?"  he  said. 
"  It  will  not* do,  Sir  Willoughby  !" 
She  spurred  him  to  a  frenzy. 

'•  My  dear  Mrs.  Mountstuart,  you  have  been  listening  to 
tales.  I  am  not  a  tyrant.  I  am  one  of  the  most  easy-going 
of  men.  Let  us  preserve  the  forms  due  to  society  :  I  say  no 
more.  As  for  poor  old  Vernon,  people  call  me  a  good  sort 
of  cousin;  I  sliouM  like  to  see  him  comfortably  married; 
decently  married  this  time.  I  have  proposed  to  contribute 
to  hia  establishment.  I  mention  it  to  show  that  the  case 
has  been  practically  considered.  He  has  had  a  tolerably 
ring  experience  of  the  state;  he  might  be  inclined  if, 
yon  took  him  in  hand,  for  another  venture.  It's  a 
demoralizing  lottery.     However,  Government  sanctions  it." 

••  l!ut.  Sir  Willoughby,  what  is  the  use  of  my  taking  him 
in  hand,  when,  ;is  yon  tell  me,  Laetitia  Dale  holds  back?" 
"  She  certainly  does." 

'  Then  we  are  talking  to  no  purpose,  unless  you  under- 
take to  melt  her." 

He  suffered  a  lurking  smile  to  kindle  to  some  strength  of 
meaning. 

•■  5  not  over-considerate  in  committing  me  to  such 

an  office." 

"  You  are  afraid  of  the  danger  ?"  she  all  but  sneered. 
Sharpened  by  her  tone,  he  said:   "I  have  such  a  love  of" 


CLEVER  FENCING  AND  THE  NEED  FOE  IT.  '673 

stedfastness  of  character,  that  I  should  be  a  poor  advocate 
in  the  endeavour  to  break  it.  And  frankly,  I  know  the 
danger.  I  saved  my  honour  when  I  made  the  attempt : 
that  is  all  I  can  say." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  Mrs.  Mountstuart  threw  back  her  head 
to  let  her  eyes  behold  him  summarily  over  tbeir  fine  aqui- 
line bridge,  "  you  have  the  heart  of  mystification,  my  good 
friend." 

"  Abandon  the  idea  of  Lastitia  Dale." 

"  And  marry  your  cousin  Vernon  to  whom  ?  Where  are 
we?" 

"  As  T  said,  ma'am,  I  am  an  easy-going  man.  I  really 
have  not  a  spice  of  the  tyrant  in  me.  An  intemperate  crea- 
ture held  by  the  collar  may  have  that  notion  of  me,  while 
pulling  to  be  released  as  promptly  as  it  entered  the  noose. 
But  I  do  strictly  and  sternly  object  to  the  scandal  of  violent 
separations,  open  breaches  of  solemn  engagements,  a  public 
rupture.  Put  it  that  I  am  the  cause,  I  will  not  consent  to  a 
violation  of  decorum.  Is  that  clear  ?  It  is  just  possible  for 
things  to  be  arranged  so  that  all  parties  may  be  happy  in 
their  way  without  much  hubbub.  Mind,  it  is  not  I  who 
have  willed  it  so.  I  am,  and  I  am  forced  to  be,  passive. 
But  I  will  not  be  obstructive." 

He  paused,  waving  his  hand  to  signify  the  vanity  of  the 
more  that  might  be  said. 

Some  conception  of  him,  dashed  by  incredulity,  excited 
the  lady's  intelligence. 

"  Well  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  you  have  planted  me  in  the 
land  of  conjecture.  As  my  husband  used  to  say,  I  don't  see 
light,  but  I  think  I  see  the  lynx  that  does.  We  won't  dis- 
cuss it  at  present.  I  certainly  must  be  a  younger  woman 
than  I  supposed,  for  I  am  learning  hard. — Here  comes  the 
professor,  buttoned  up  to  the  ears,  and  Dr.  Middleton  flap- 
ping in  the  breeze.  There  will  be  a  cough,  and  a  footnote 
referring  to  the  young  lady  at  the  station,  if  we  stand 
together,  so  please  order  my  carriage." 

"  You  found  Clara  complacent  ?  roguish  ?" 

"  I  will  call  to-morrow.  You  have  simplified  my  task,  Sir 
Willoughby,  very  much  :  that  is,  assuming  that  I  have  not 
entirely  mistaken  you.  I  am  so  far  in  the  dark,  that  I  have 
to  help  myself  by  recollecting  how  Lady  Busshe  opposed  my 
view  of  a  certain  matter  formerly.     Scepticism  is  her  forte. 


374  TIIE  EGOIST. 

It  will  be  the  very  oddest  thing  if  after  all  ....  !  No,  I 
shall  own,  romance  has  not  departed.  Are  you  fond  of 
dupes  ':" 

"  I  detest  the  race." 

"  An  excellent  answer.  I  could  pardon  you  for  it."  She 
refrained  from  adding:  '  If  you  are  making"  one  of  me.' 

Sir  Willoughby  went  to  ring  for  her  carriage. 

She  knew.  That  was  palpable  :  Clara  had  betrayed  him. 
1  The  earlier  Colonel  De  Crave  leaves  Patterne  Hall  the 
better :'  she  had  said  that :  and,  '  all  parties  would  be 
happier  for  an  excursion.'  She  knew  the  position  of  things 
and  she  guessed  the  remainder.  But  what  she  did  not 
know,  and  could  not  divine,  was  the  man  who  fenced  her. 
He  speculated  further  on  the  witty  and  the  dull.  These 
latter  are  the  redoubtable  body.  They  will  have  facts  to 
convince  them ;  they  had,  he  confessed  it  to  himself,  pre- 
;ated  him  into  the  novel  sphere  of  his  dark  hints  to  Mrg. 
Mountstuart;  from  which  the  utter  darkness  might  allow 
him  to  escape,  yet  it  embraced  him  singularly,  and  even 
pleasantly,  with  the  sense  of  a  fact  established.  " 

It  embraced  him  even  very  pleasantly.     There  was  an  end 

to  his  tortures.     He  sailed  on  a  tranquil  sea,  the  husband  of 

teadfast    woman — no  rogue.      The   exceeding  beauty  of 

[fastness    in   women   clothed   Laetitia   in    graces    Clara 

could  Dot  match.     A  tried  stedfast  woman  is  the  one  jewel 

of  the  sex.     She  points  to  her  husband  like  the  sunflower; 

her  love  illuminates  him;   she  lives  in  him,  for  him;   she 

Ges  to  his  worth  ;  she  drags  the  world  to  his  feei  ;  she 

leads  the  chorus  of  his  praises  ;  she  justifies  him  in  his  own 

em.     Surely  there  is  not  on  earth  such  beauty! 

It  we  have  to  pass  through  anguish  to  discover  it  and 
cherish  t  he  peace  it  gives,  to  clasp  it,  calling  it  ours,  is  a  full 
reward. 

Deep  in  his  reverie,  he  said  his  adieux  to  Mrs.  Mount- 
rt,  and  strolled  up  the  avenue  behind  the  carriage- 
wheels,  unwilling  to  mee<  Laetitia  till  he  had  exhausted  the 
:       h  savour  of  the  cud  of  fancy. 

3  ipposing  it  dune! — 

It  would  be  generous  on  his  part.  It  would  redound  to 
hi-  credit. 

Bis  inline  would  be  a  fortress,  impregnable  to  tongues. 
He  would  have  divine  security  in  his  home. 


CLEVER  FENCING  AND  THE  NEED  FOR  IT.  o75 

One  who  read  and  knew  and  worshipped  him  would  be 
Bitting  there  starlike :  sitting  there,  awaiting  him,  his  fixed 
star. 

It  would  be  marriage  with  a  mii^ror,  with  an  echo  ;  mar- 
riage with  a  shining  mirror,  a  choric  echo. 

It  would  be  marriage  with  an  intellect,  wTith  a  fine  under- 
standing ;  to  make  his  home  a  fountain  of  repeatable  wit : 
to  make  his  dear  old  Patterne  Hall  the  luminary  of  the 
county. 

He  revolved  it  as  a  chant :  with  anon  and  anon  involun- 
tarily a  discordant  animadversion  on  Lady  Busshe.  His 
attendant  imps  heard  the  angry  inward  cry. 

Forthwith  he  set  about  painting  Laetitia  in  delectable 
human  colours,  like  a  miniature  of  the  past  century,  reserv- 
ing her  ideal  figure  for  his  private  satisfaction.  The  world 
was  to  bow  to  her  visible  beauty,  and  he  gave  her  enamel 
and  glow,  a  taller  statue,  a  swimming  air,  a  transcendancy 
that  exorcised  the  image  of  the  old  witch  who  had  driven 
him  to  this. 

The  result  in  him  was,  that  Lastitia  became  humanly  and 
avowedly  beautiful.  Her  dark  eyelashes  on  the  pallor  of 
her  cheeks  lent  their  aid  to  the  transformation,  which  was  a 
necessity  to  him,  so  it  was  performed.  He  received  the 
waxen  impression. 

His  retinue  of  imps  had  a  revel.  We  hear  wonders  of 
men,  and  we  see  a  lifting  up  of  hands  in  the  world.  The 
wonders  would  be  explained,  and  never  a  hand  need  to 
interject,  if  the  mystifying  man  were  but  accompanied  and 
reported  of  by  that  monkey-eyed  confraternity.  They  spy 
the  heart  and  its  twists. 

The  heart  is  the  magical  gentleman.  None  of  them  would 
follow  where  there  was  no  heart.  The  twists  of  the  heart 
are  the  comedy. 

'  The  secret  of  the  heart  is  its  pressing  love  of  self,'  says  the 
Book. 

By  that  secret  the  mystery  of  the  organ  is  legible  :  and  a 
comparison  of  the  heart  to  the  mountain  rillet  is  taken  up  to 
show  us  the  unbaffled  force  of  the  little  channel  in  seeking  to 
swell  its  volume,  strenuously,  sinuously,  ever  in  pursuit  of 
self  ;  the  busiest  as  it  is  the  most  single-aiming  of  forces  on 
our  earth.  And  We  are  directed  to  the  sinuosities  for  posta 
of  observation  chiefly  instructive. 


TIIK  EGOIST. 

Few  maintain  a  stand  there.     People  pee,  and  tliey  rush 
aw;iv  to  interchange  liftings  of  hands  at  the  sight,  instead  of 
ntlv  studying  the  phenomenon  of  energy. 

[uently  a  man  in  love  with  one  woman,  and  in  all 
hut  all-. 'lute  consciousness,  behind  the  thinnest  of  veils,  pre- 
paring  bis  mind  to  love  another,  will  be  barely  credible. 
The  particular  hunger  of  the  forceful  but  adaptable  heart  ia 
the  key  of  him.  Heboid  the  mountain  rillet,  become  a 
k,  become  a  torrent,  how  it  inarms  a  handsome  boulder: 
if  the  stone  will  not  go  with  it,  on  it  hurries,  pursuing 
Belf  in  extension,  down  to  where  perchance  a  dam  has  been 
raised  of  a  sufficient  depth  to  enfold  and  keep  it  from  inordi- 
nate rest  lessness.  Lastitia  represented  this  peaceful  restrain, 
ing  space  in  prospect. 

Hit  she  was  a  faded  young  woman.  He  was  aware  of  it ; 
and  latically   looking  at  himself  with  her    upturned 

tubs,  he  accepted  her  benevolently-,  as  a  God  grateful  for 
worship,  and  used  the  divinity  she  imparted  to  paint  and 
renovate  her.  His  heart  required  her  so.  The  heart  works 
the  springs  of  imagination;  imagination  received  its  com- 
mission from  the  heart,  and  wTas  a  cunning  artist. 

Cunning  to  such  a  degree  of  seductive  genius  that  the 
masterpiece  it  offered  to  his  contemplation  enabled  him 
simultaneously  to  gaze  on  Clara  and  think  of  Laetitia.  Clara 
came  through  the  park-gates  with  Vernon,  a  brilliant  girl 
indeed,  and  a  shallow  one:  a  healthy  creature,  and  an 
animal  ;  attractive,  but  capricious,  impatient,  treacherous, 
foul:  a  woman  to  drag  men  through  the  mud.  She  ap- 
proached. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

IN  WHICH  WIS  TAKE  A  STEP  TO  THE  CENTRE  OF  EGOISM. 

Tit  Wrnon  soon  left  them. 

"  Vim  have  not  seen  Crossjay  ?"  Willoughby  inquired. 
"  No,"  said  Clara.     "Once  more  1  beg  you  to  pardon  him. 
He  spoke  falsely,  owing  to  his  poor  boy's  idea  of  chivalry." 


TO  THE  CENTRE  OF  EGOISM.  377 

"The  chivalry  to  the  sex  which  commences  in  lies,  ends 
by  creating  the  woman's  hero,  whom  we  see  about  the  world 
and  in  certain  Courts  of  Law." 

His  ability  to  silence  her  was  great :  she  could  not  reply 
to  speech  like  that. 

"  You  have,"  said  he,  "  made  a  confidante  of  Mrs.  Mount- 
stuart." 

"  Yes." 

"  This  is  your  purse." 

"  I  thank  you." 

"Professor  Crooklyn  has  managed  to  make  your  father 
acquainted  with  Your  project.  That,  I  suppose,  is  the  rail- 
way ticket  in  the  fold  of  the  purse.  He  was  assured  at  the 
station  that  you  had  taken  a  ticket  to  London,  and  would 
not  want  the  fly." 

"  It  is  true.     I  was  foolish." 

"  You  have  had  a  pleasant  walk  with  Vernon — turning  mo 
in  and  out  P" 

"  We  did  Dot  speak  of  you.  You  allude  to  what  he  would 
never  consent  to." 

"  He's  an  honest  fellow,  in  his  old-fashioned  way.  He's  a 
secret  old  fellow.     Does  he  ever  talk  about  his  wife  to  you?" 

Clara  dropped  her  purse,  and  stooped  and  picked  it  up. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  Mr.  Whitford's  affairs,"  she  said,  and 
she  opened  the  purse  and  tore  to  pieces  the  railway-ticket. 

"  The  story's  a  proof  that  romantic  spirits  do  not  furnish 
the  most  romantic  history.  You  have  the  word  chivalry 
frequently  on  your  lips.  He  chivalrously  married  the 
daughter  of  the  lodging-house  where  he  resided  before  I 
took  him.  We  obtained  information  of  the  auspicious  union 
in  a  newspaper  report  of  Mrs.  Whitford's  drunkenness  aud 
rioting  at  a  London  railway  terminus — probably  the  one 
whither  your  ticket  would  have  taken  you  yesterday,  for  I 
heard  the  lady  was  on  her  way  to  us  for  supplies,  the  con- 
nubial larder  being  empty." 

"  I  am  sorry ;  I  am  ignorant ;  I  have  heard  nothing ;  I 
know  nothing,"  said  Clara. 

"  You  are  disgusted.  But  half  the  students  and  authors 
yon  hear  of  marry  in  that  way.  And  very  few  have  Vernon'a 
luck." 

"  She  had  good  qualities  ?"  asked  Clara. 

Her  under  lip  hung. 


TITE   KG 01  ST. 

It   looked  like  disgust;  he   begged   her  not  indulge  the 

II  If. 

"•  Literary  men,   it  is  notorious,    even  with  the  entry  to 
have  no  taste  in  women.     The  housewife  is  their 
i       Ladies  frighten  and  would,  no  doubt,  bo  an  annoy- 
ance  and  hindrance  to  them  at  home." 

"  Vmi  said  he  was  fortunate." 

"  You  have  a  kindness  for  him." 

"  1  respect  him." 

'•lie  is  a  friendly  old  feilow  in  his  awkward  fashion; 
honourable,  and  so  forth.  But  a  disreputable  alliance  of 
thai  suit  sticks  to  a  man.  The  world  will  talk.  Yes,  he 
was  fort  miate  so  far  ;  he  fell  into  the  mire  and  got  out  of  it. 
Were  he  to  marry  again  .  .  .  ." 

"  She  .....?" 

"  Died.  Do  not  be  startled  ;  it  was  a  natural  death.  She 
responded  to  the  sole  wishes  left  to  his  family.  He  buried 
the  woman,  and  I  received  him.  I  took  him  on  my  tour. 
A  second  marriage  might  cover  the  first:  there  would  be  a 
buzz  about  the  old  business:  the  woman's  relatives  write  to 
him  still,  try  to  bleed  him,  I  dare  say.  However,  now  you 
understand  Ins  irloominess.  I  don't  imagine  he  regrets  his 
1  — .  Hi'  probably  sentimentalizes,  like  most  men  when  they 
are  well  rid  of  a  burden.  You  must  not  think  the  worse  of 
him." 

"  I  do  not,"  said  Clara. 

"I  defend  him  whenever  the  matter's  discussed." 

"  I  hope  you  do." 

"  Without  approving  his  folly.     I  can't  wash  him  clean." 

Tiny  were  at  the  Hall-doors.  She  waited  for  any  per- 
sonal communications  he  might  be  pleased  to  make,  and  as 
there  was  none,  she  ran  upstairs  to  her  room. 

lie  In  I  tossed  her  to  Vernon  in  his  mind  not  only  pain- 
lessly, but  with  a  keen  acid  of  satisfaction.  The  heart  is  the 
wizard. 

Next  he  bent  his  deliberate  steps  to  Laditia. 

The  mind  was  guilty  of  some  hesitation ;  the  feet  went 
forward. 

.She  was  working  at  an  embroidery  by  an  open  window. 

Colonel  De  Cr;i  ied  outside,  and  AVilloughby  pardoned 

le  :■  air  id'  demure  amusumen',  on  hearing  him  say:  "No,  I 

have   had   one  of  the  pleasantest  half-hours  of  my  life,  and 


TO  THE  CENTRE  OF  EGOISM.  379 

would  rather  idle  here,  if  idle  you  will  have  it,  than  employ 
my  faculties  on  horse-back." 

"  Time  is  not  lost  in  conversing  with  Miss  Dale,"  said 
Willoughby. 

The  light  was  tender  to  her  complexion  where  she  sat  in 
partial  shadow. 

De  Craje  asked  whether  Crossjay  had  been  caught. 
Lsetitia  murmured  a  kind  word  for  the  boy.  Willoughby 
examined  her  embroidery. 

The  ladies  Eleanor  and  Isabel  appeared. 

They  invited  her  to  take  carriage-exercise  with  them. 

Laatitia  did  not  immediately  answer,  and  Willoughby 
remarked  :  "  Miss  Dale  has  been  reproving  Horace  for  idle- 
ness, and  I  recommend  you  to  etilist  him  to  do  duty,  while  I 
relieve  him  here." 

The  ladies  had  but  to  look  at  the  colonel.  He  was  at  their 
disposal,  if  they  would  have  him.  He  was  marched  to  the 
carriage. 

Lsetitia  plied  her  threads. 

"  Colonel  De  Crave  spoke  of  Crossjay,"  she  said.  "  May 
I  hope  you  have  forgiven  the  poor  boy,  Sir  Willoughby  ?" 

He  replied  :  "  Plead  for  him." 

"  I  wish  I  had  eloquence." 

"  In  my  opinion  you  have  it." 

"  If  he  offends,  it  is  never  from  meanness.  At  school, 
among  comrades,  he  would  shine.  He  is  in  too  strong  a 
light ;  his  feelings  and  his  moral  nature  are  over- excited." 

"  That  was  not  the  case  when  he  was  at  home  with  you." 

"  I  am  severe  ;  I  am  stern." 

"  A  Spartan  mother  !" 

"  My  system  of  managing  a  boy  would  be  after  that 
model :  except  in  this  :  he  should  always  feel  that  he  could 
obtain  forgiveness." 

"  Not  at  the  expense  of  justice  ?" 

"  Ah  !  young  creatures  are  not  to  be  arraigned  before  the 
higher  Courts.  It  seems  to  me  perilous  to  terrify  their 
imaginations.  If  we  do  so,  are  we  not  likely  to  produce  the 
very  evil  we  are  combating  ?  The  alternations  for  the  young 
should  be  school  and  home  :  and  it  should  be  in  their  hearts 
to  have  confidence  that  forgiveness  alternates  with  discipline. 
They  are  of  too  tender  an  age  for  the  rigours  of  the  world ; 
we  are  in  danger  of  hardening  them.     I  prove  to  you  that  I 


380  THE  EGOTRT. 

nm  •  id  of  eloquence.    You  encouraged  me  to  speak, 

Willoughby." 

'•  Vmii  Bpeak   wisely.   I.        ;   a." 

11  I  tliink  it  true.  Will  imt  you  reflect  on  it?  You  have 
milv  to  <ln  so,  to  forgive  liim.  I  am  growing  bold,  indeed, 
and  shall  have  to  beg  forgiveness  for  myself." 

•'  Yon  still  write  ?  you  continue  to  work  with  your  pen  ?" 
sail  Willoughby. 

A  little;  a  very  little." 
"I  do  not  like  yon  to  squander  yourself,  waste  yourself, on 
the  public.  Yon  are  too  precious  to  feed  the  beast.  Giving 
out  incessantly  must  end  by  attenuating.  Reserve  yourself 
for  your  friends.  Wiry  should  they  be  robbed  of  so  much  of 
you?  Is  it  not  reasonable  to  assume  that  by  lying  fallow 
yon  would  be  more  enriched  for  domestic  life?  Candidly, 
had  I  authority  1  would  confiscate  your  pen:  I  would  '  away 
with  that  bauble.'  You  will  not  often  find  me  quoting 
Cromwell,  but  his  words  apply  in  this  instance.  I  would 
l-it  her.  that  lancet.  Perhaps  it  is  the  more  corrc  t 
t  lit  bleeds  you,  it  wastes  you.  For  what?  For  a 
breatb  of  fame  !" 

"  I    write  lor  money." 

ie — I  would  say  of  another — you  subject  your- 
self to  the   risk   of   mental   degradation.      Who   knows? — 
al !     Trafficking  the  brains  for  money,  must  bring  them 
to  the  level  of  the  purchasers  in  time.    I  confiscate  your  pen, 
1 

•  It  will  be  to  confiscate  your  own  gift,  Sir  Willoughby." 
"Then  that  proves — will  yon  tell  me  the  date?" 
'  Yon   5i  nt    me  a  gold  pen-holder  on  my  sixteenth  birth- 

" 
'  Ir    proves    my   utter   thoughtlessness   then,   and    later. 

Aj    1   later'" 

He  I    an   elbow  on  his   knee  and  covered  his   eyes, 

murmuring  in  that  profound  hollow  which  is  haunted  by  the 

6  of  a  contrite  past  :    "•  And  later!" 

The  deed  could  be  done.     He  had  come  to  the  conclusion 

thai    it   could  be  done,  though  the  effort  to  harmonize  the 

figure  sitting  near  him.  with  the  artistic  figure  of  his  purest 

pigments,  bad  cost  him  labour  and  a  blinking  of  the  eyelids. 

could  be  done.     Her  pleasant  tone,  sensible  talk, 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  EGOIST.  381 

and  the  light  favouring  her  complexion,  helped  him  in  his 
effort.  She  "was  a  sober  cup ;  sober  and  wholesome.  Deliri- 
ousness  is  for  adolescence.  The  men  who  seek  intoxicating 
cups  are  men  who  invite  their  fates. 

Curiously,  yet  as  positively  as  things  can  be  affirmed,  the 
husband  of  this  woman  would  be  able  to  boast  of  her  virtues 
and  treasures  abroad,  as  he  could  not— impossible  to  say 
why  not — boast  of  a  beautiful  wife  or  a  blue-stocking  wife. 
One  of  her  merits  as  a  wife  would  be  this  extraordinary 
neutral  merit  of  a  character  that  demanded  colour  from  the 
marital  hand,  and  would  take  it. 

Lastitia  had  not  to  learn  that  he  had  much  to  distress  him. 
Her  wonder  at  his  exposure  of  his  grief  counteracted  a  flut- 
tering of  vague  alarm.  She  was  nervous  ;  she  sat  in  expec- 
tation of  some  burst  of  regrets  or  of  passion. 

"  I  may  hope  that  you  have  pardoned  Crossjay  ?"  she 
said. 

"  My  friend,"  said  he,  uncovering  his  face,  "  I  am  governed 
by  principles.  Convince  me  of  an  error,  I  shall  not  obsti- 
nately pursue  a  premeditated  course.  But  you  know  me. 
Men  who  have  not  principles  to  rule  their  conduct  are — well, 
they  are  unworthy  of  a  half  hour  of  companionship  with 
you.  I  will  speak  to  you  to-night.  I  have  letters  to  des- 
patch. To-night :  at  twelve  :  in  the  room  where  we  spoke 
last.  Or  await  me  in  the  drawing-room.  I  have  to  attend 
on  my  guests  till  late." 

He  bowed  ;  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  go. 

The  deed  could  be  done.  It  must  be  done;  it  was  hia 
destiny. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE   EGOIST. 


But  already  he  had  begun  to  regard  the  deed  as  his  execu- 
tioner. He  dreaded  meeting  Clara.  The  folly  of  having 
retained  her  stood  before  him.  How  now  to  look  on  her  and 
keep  a  sane  resrlution  unwavering  Y  She  tempted  to  the 
insane.     Had  she  been  away,  he  could  have  walked  through 


THE  EGOIST. 

the  performance  composed  by  the  sense  of  doing  a  duty  to 

self:  perhaps   faintlj  hating  the   poor  wretch   he  made 

happy  at    last,  kind    to   her   in    a   manner,  polite.     Clara's 

in  the  bonse  previous  to  the  deed,  and  oh,  heaven! 

it,  threatened   his  wits.     Pride  Y     He  had  none;    he 

it  down  for  her  to  trample  it;  he  canght  it  back  ere  it 

trodden  on.     Yes;  he  had  pride:  he  had  it  as  a  dagger 

in  bis  breast:  his  pride  was  his  misery.     But  he  was  too 

proud  to  submit  to  misery.     "  What  I  do  is  right."     He  said 

the  word-,  and  rectitude  smoothed  his  path,  till  the  question 

clamoured  for  answei  :   Would  the  world  countenance  and 

endorse  his  pride  in  Lsetitia?     At  one  time,  yes.     And  now? 

I  -  beauty  ascended,  laid  a  beam  on  him. 

We  are  on   In  .aid   the   labouring  vessel  of  humanity  in  a 

■a,  v.  hen  cries  and  counteicriis  ring  out,  disorder liness 

mixes   the  crew,  and   the  fury  of  self-preservation  divides : 

this  one  is  for  the  ship,  that  one  for  his  life.     Clara  was  the 

former  u>  him,  Laetitia  the  latter.     But  what  if  there  might 

i  -:    '\   in  holding  tenaciously  to  Clara  than  in 

casting  her  off  for  Laetitia  ?     No,  she  had  done  things  to  set 

his  pride  throbbing  in  the   quick.     She  had  gone  bleeding 

About   first  to  one,  then  to  another  ;  she  had  betrayed  him  to 

Vernon,   and   to   Mrs.  Mountstuart;    a  look  in  the  eyes  of 

Horace  De  Craye  said,  to  him  as  well:  to  whom  not  ?     He 

tit    hold   to  her    for  vengeance ;.  but  that  appetite  was 

short-lived   in  him  if  it  ministered  nothing  to  his  purposes. 

"  I  discard  all  idea  of  vengeance,"  he  said,  and  thrilled  burn- 

ingly   to  a  smart  in  his  admiration  of  the  man  who   could 

be    so    magnanimous    under  mortal    injury:    for    the    more 

admiral.  !<•  he,  the  more  pitiable.     He  drank  a  drop  or  two  of 

s«  lf-pity  like  a  poison,  repelling  the  assaults  of  public  pity. 

1        a  must  be  ip.      It  must  be  seen  by  the  world  that, 

as  he  felt,  the  thing  he  did  was  right.     Laocoon  of  his  own 

serpents,  he  struggled  to  a  certain  magnificence  of  attitude 

in  the  muscular  net  of  constrictions  he  flung  around  himself. 

I        a  must  be  given  up.     0  bright  Abominable  !    She  must 

en  up:  but   not   to  one  whose  touch  of  her  would  be 

-  in  the  blood  of  the  yielder,  snakes  in  his  bed :  she  must 

an   extinguisher;  to  be  the  second  wife  of  an 

old-fashioned  semi-recluse,  disgraced  in  his  first.     And  were 

iblicly  known  that  she  bad  been  cast  off,  and  had  fallen 

Id  \  i  i  noil  forarefnge,  and  part  in  spite,  part  in  shame. 


IN  THE  HEART  OP  TnE   EGOTST.  383 

part  m  desperation,  part  in  a  fit  of  good  sense  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, espoused  him,  her  beauty  would  not  influence 
the  world  in  its  judgement.  The  world  would  know  what 
to  think.  As  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  whispeied  to 
Willoughby,  the  world,  were  it  requisite,  might  be  taught  to 
think  what  it  assuredly  would  not  think  if  she  should  be 
seen  tripping  to  the  altar  with  Horace  De  Craye.  Self-pre- 
servation, not  vengeance,  breathed  that  whisper.  He  glanced 
at  her  iniquity  for  a  justification  of  it,  without  any  desire  to 
do  her  a  permanent  hurt :  he  was  highly  civilized  :  but  with 
a  strong  intention  to  give  her  all  the  benefit  of  the  scandal, 
supposing  a  scandal,  or  ordinary  tattle. 

"  And  so  he  handed  her  to  his  cousin  and  secretary,  Ver- 
non Whitford,  who  opened  his  mouth  and  shut  his  eyes" 

Tou  hear  the  world  ?  How  are  we  to  stop  "it  from  chatter- 
ing ?  Enough  that  he  had  no  desire  to  harm  her.  Some 
gentle  anticipations  of  her  being  tarnished  were  imperative  ; 
they  came  spontaneously  to  him ;  otherwise  the  radiance  of 
that  bright  Abominable  in  loss  would  have  been  insufferable ; 
he  could  not  have  borne  it;  he  could  never  have  surrendered 
her. 

Moreover,  a  happy  present  effect  was  the  result.  He 
conjured  up  the  anticipated  chatter  and  shrug  of  the  world 
so  vividly  that  her  beauty  grew  hectic  with  the  stain,  bereft 
of  its  formidable  magnetism.  He  could  meet  her  calmly  ;  he 
had  steeled  himself.  Purity  in  women  was  his  principal 
stipulation,  and  a  woman  puffed  at,  was  not  the  person  to 
cause  him  tremours. 

Consider  him  indulgently :  the  Egoist  is  the  Son  of  Him- 
self He  is  likewise  the  Father.  And  the  son  loves  the 
father,  the  father  the  son  ;  they  reciprocate  affection  through 
the  closest  of  ties  ;  and  shall  they  view  behaviour  unkindly 
wounding  either  of  them,  not  for  each  other's  dear  sake 
abhorring  the  criminal  ?  They  would  not  injure  you,  but 
they  cannot  consent  to  see  one  another  suffer  or  crave  in  vain. 
The  two  rub  together  in  sympathy  besides  relationship  to  an 
intenser  one.  Are  you,  without  much  offending,  sacrificed 
by  them,  it  is  on  the  altar  of  their  mutual  love,  to  filial  piety 
or  paternal  tenderness :  the  younger  has  offered  a  dainty 
morsel  to  the  elder,  or  the  elder  to  the  younger.  Absorbed 
in  their  great  example  of  devotion,  they  do  not  think  of  you. 
They  are  beautiful 


I  Til  K   EGOIST. 

Y(  t  ?*  if  most  trne  thai   t lio  yonncror  hns  the  passions  of 

1 1  :  thereof  will  come  division  between  them ;  and  this  is 

They  are  then  pathetic.     This  was  the  state 

of  Sir  Willoughby  lending  ear  to  his  elder,  nntil  he  submitted 

to  bite  ai  the  fruit  proposed  to  him — with  how  wry  a  mouth 

senior  chose  not  to  mark.     At  Least,  as  we  per- 

.:  half  of  him  was  ripe  of  wisdom  in  his  own  interests. 

The  cruder  half  had  hut  to  hi-  obedient  to  the  leadership  of 

icity  for  his  interests  to  I,  •  secured,  and  a  filial  disposition 

I  him;  painfully  indeed;  hut  the  same  rare  quality 

directed  th I  gentleman  to  Bwallow  his  pain.     That  the 

sou  should  bewail  his  fate  were  a  dishonour  to  the  sire.     He 
renced,  and  submitted.     Thus,  to  say,  consider  him  in- 
dulgently, is  too  much  an  appeal  for  charity  on  behalf  of  one 
requiring  hut   initial  anatomy — a  slicing  in  halves — to  ex- 
ite,  perchance  exalt  him.     The  Egoist  is  our  fountain- 
i.  primeval  man:  the  primitive  is  born  again,  the  elemen- 
tal bituted.       Born    again,  into    new    conditions,  the 
ay  be  highly  polished  of  men,  and  forfeit  nothing 
the  roughness  of  his  original  nature.     He  is  not  only 
his  own  father,  he  is  ours;  and  he  is  also  our  son.     We  have 
1  him,  he  u*?.     Such  were  we,  to  such  are  we  return- 
ing :  not  other,  sings  the  poet,  than  one  who  roil  fully  works  his 
Rballop  I  the  tide,  'si  brachia  forte  remisit ' : — let  him 
[y  relax  the   labour  of  his    arms,   however  high  up  the 
.in.  and  hack  he  goes,  'in  pejus,'  to  the  early  principle 
ii-  being,  with  seeds  and   plants,  that  are  as   carelessly 
weighed  in  the  hand  and  as  indiscriminately  husbanded  as  our 
humanity. 

Poets  on  the  other  side  may  be  cited  for  an  assurance  that 
the  primitive  is  ao1  the  degenerate:  rather  is  he  a  sign  of 
the  indestructibility  of  the  race,  of  the  ancient  energy  in  re- 
moving  obstacles  to  individual  growth;  a  sample  of  what  wo 
would  be,  had  we  his  concentrated  power.  He  is  the  original 
innocent,  I  he  pure  simple.  It  is  we  who  have  fallen ;  we  have 
melted  into  Society,  diluted  our  essence,  dissolved.  He  stands 
in  the  midst  monumentally,  a  landmark  of  the  tough  and 
honest  old  with  the  symbolic  alphabet  of  striking  arms 

fiii  I  running  our  early  language,  scrawled  over  hisperson, 

the  glorious  firsl   t'int   and  arrow-head  for  his  crest :  at 
one  the  spectre  of  the  Kitchen-midden  and  our  ripest  issue. 
But  Society  is  about  him.     The  occasional  spectacle  of  the 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  EGOIST.  085 

primitive  dangling  on  a  rope,  has  impressed  his  mind  with 
the  strength  of  his  natural  enemy  :  from  which  uncongenial 
sight  he  has  turned  shuddering  hardly  less  to  behold  the 
blast  that  is  blown  upon  a  reputation  where  one  has  been 
disrespectful  of  the  many.  By  these  means,  through  medita- 
tion on  the  contrast  of  circumstances  in  life,  a  pulse  of 
imagination  has  begun  to  stir,  and  he  has  entered  the  upper 
sphere,  or  circle  of  spiritual  Egoism:  he  has  become  the 
civilized  Egoist ;  primitive  still,  as  sure  as  man  has  teeth, 
but  developed  in  his  manner  of  using  them. 

Degenerate  or  not  (and  there  is  no  just  reason  to  suppose 
it),  Sir  Willoughby  was  a  social  Egoist,  fiercely  imaginative 
in  whatsoever  concerned  him.  He  had  discovered  a  greater 
realm  than  that  of  the  sensual  appetites,  and  he  rushed 
across  and  around  it  in  his  conquering  period  with  an  Alex- 
ander's pride.  On  these  wind-like  journeys  he  had  carried 
Constantia,  subsequently  Clara ;  and  however  it  may  have 
been  in  the  case  of  Miss  Durham,  in  that  of  Miss  Middle- 
ton  it  is  almost  certain  she  caught  her  glimpse  of  his  interior 
from  sheer  fatigue  in  hearing  him  discourse  of  it.  What  he 
revealed  was  not  the  cause  of  her  sickness :  women  can  bear 
revelations — they  are  exciting:  but  the  monotonousness.  He 
slew  imagination.  There  is  no  direr  disaster  in  love  than 
the  death  of  imagination.  He  dragged  her  through  the 
labyrinths  of  his  penetralia,  in  his  hungry  coveting  to  be 
loved  more  and  still  more,  more  still,  until  imagination  gave 
up  the  ghost,  and  he  talked  to  her  plain  hearing  like  a 
monster.  It  must  have  been  that ;  for  the  spell  of  the 
primitive  upon  women  is  masterful  up  to  the  time  of 
contact. 

'  And  so  he  handed  her  to  his  cousin  and  secretary  Vernon 
"VVhitford,  who  opened  his  mouth  and  shut  his  eyes.' 

The  urgent  question  was,  how  it  was  to  be  accomplished. 
Willoughby  worked  at  the  subject  with  all  his  power  of 
concentration  :  a  power  that  had  often  led  him  to  feel  and 
say,  that  as  a  banister,  a  diplomatist,  or  a  general,  he  would 
have  won  his  grades  :  and  granting  him  a  personal  interest 
in  the  business,  he  might  have  achieved  eminence:  he  schemed 
and  fenced  remarkably  well. 

He  projected  a  scene,  following  expressions  of  anxiety  on 
account  of  old  Vernon  and  his  future  settlement  :  and  then 
— Clara  maintaining  her  doggedness,  to  which  he  was  nov 

2  c 


THE  kgoist. 

bo  accustomed  ihat  he  could  not  conceive  a  change  in  it— > 

-   be:  "  It'  yon  determine  on   breaking,  I  give  yon  back 

your   word    on  out-  condition.'     Whereupon    she   starts  :    hg 

I  on    her   promise:  she  declines:  affairs  resume   their 

former  footing ;  she  frets,  she  begs  for  the  disclosure:  he 
her  by  telling  her  his  desire  to  keep  her  in  the 
family:  she  is  unilluminated,  but  strongly  moved  by  curiosity : 
he  philosophizes  on  marriage — 'What  are  we?  poor  crea- 
tures  !  we  must  get  through  life  as  we  can,  doing  as  much 
good  as  we  can  to  those  we  love;  and  think  as  you  please,  I 
love  old  Vernon.  Am  I  not  giving  you  the  greatest  possible 
proof  of  ii  She  will  not  see.     Then  flatly  out   comes  the 

one  condition.  That  and  no  other.  'Take  Vernon  and  I 
release  you.'  She  refuses.  Now  ensues  the  debate,  all 
the  oratory  being  with  him.  'Is  it  because  of  his  unfor- 
tunate 6rst  marriage  ?  You  assured  me  you  thought  no 
worse  of  him  :  Ac'  She  declares  the  proposal  revolting. 
He  can  distinguish  nothing  that  should  offend  her  in  a  pro- 
posal to  make  his  cousin  happy  if  she  will  not  him.  Irony 
and  Barcasm  relieve  his  emotions,  but  he  convinces  her  he 
aling  plainly  and  intends  generosity.  She  is  confused  ; 
she  speaks  in  maiden  fashion.  He  touches  again  on  Vernon's 
early  escapade.  She  does  not  enjoy  it.  The  scene  closes 
with  his  Kidding  her  reflect  on  it,  and  remember  the  one 
condition  of  her  release.  Mrs.  Mountstuart  Jenkinson,  now 
reduced  to  believe  that  he  burns  to  be  free,  is  then  called 
'"  [°r  an  interview  with  Clara.  His  aunts  Eleanor  and 
Isabel  I  her.     Laetitia  in  passionate   earnest  besieges 

°_er-      Her   father  is   wrought  on  to  besiege  her.      Finally 
X  '    :"n  ia  attacked  by  Willoughby  and  Mrs.  Mountstuart:— 
and   here,    Willoughby  chose  to  think,  was  the  main  diffi- 
Bul  the  girl   has  monev ;  she  is  agreeable;  Vernon 

a  her;  she  is  fond  of  his  'Alps,'  they  have  tastes  in 
common,  he  likes  her  Father,  and  in  the  end  he  besieges  her. 
V\  ill  she  yieldr  I),.  Craye  is  absent.  There  is  no  other  way 
of  shunning  a  marriage  she  is  incomprehensibly  but  franti- 
cal  ■'■  ••,,)-     She  is  in  the  toils.     Her  father  will  stay 

at  I  atterne  Hall  as  long  as  his  host  desires  it.    Shehesitates, 

ts i  overcome;  in  spite  of  a  certain  nausea  due  to  Vernon's 
preceding  alliance,  she  >  ields. 

Willou^hhy  revolved  the  entire  drama  in  Clara's  presence. 
It  helped  him  to  look  on  her  coolly.     Conducting  her  to  the 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  EGOIST.  387 

dinner-table,  he  spoke  of  Crossjay,  not  unkindly ;  and  at 
table  lie  revolved  the  set  of  scenes  with  a  heated  animation 
that  took  fire  from  the  wine  and  the  face  of  his  friend 
Horace,  while  he  encouraged  Horace  to  be  flowingly  Irish. 
He  nipped  the  felloAV  good-humouredly  once  or  twice,  having 
never  felt  so  friendly  to  him  since  the  day  of  his  arrival ; 
but  the  position  of  critic  is  instinctively  taken  by  men  who 
do  not  flow:  and  Patterne  Port  kept  Dr.  Middleton  in  a 
benevolent  reserve  when  Willoughby  decided  that  something 
said  by  De  Craye  was  not  new,  and  laughingly  accused  him 
of  failing  to  consult  his  anecdotal  note-book  for  the  double- 
cross  to  his  last  sprightly  sally.  "Your  sallies  are  excellent, 
Horace,  but  spare  us  your  Aunt  Sallies !  "  De  Craye  had 
no  repartee,  nor  did  Dr.  Middleton  challenge  a  pun.  We 
have  only  to  sharpen  our  wits  to  trip  your  seductive  rattler 
whenever  we  may  choose  to  think  proper ;  and  evidently,  if 
we  condescended  to  it,  we  could  do  better  than  he.  The 
critic  who  has  hatched  a  witticism  is  impelled  to  this  opinion. 
Judging  by  the  smiles  of  the  ladies,  they  thought  so  too. 

Shortly  before  eleven  o'clock,  Dr.  Middleton  made  a 
Spartan  stand  against  the  offer  of  another  bottle  of  Port. 
The  regulation  couple  of  bottles  had  been  consumed  in  equal 
partnership,  and  the  Rev.  doctor  and  his  host  were  free  to 
pay  a  ceremonial  visit  to  the  drawing-room,  where  they  were 
not  expected.  A  piece  of  work  of  the  elder  ladies,  a  silken 
boudoir  sofa-rug,  was  being  examined,  with  high  approval 
of  the  two  younger.  Vernon  and  Colonel  De  Craye  had 
gone  out  in  search  of  Crossjay,  one  to  Mr.  Dale's  cottage, 
the  other  to  call  at  the  head  and  under-game-keepers.  They 
were  said  to  be  strolling  and  smoking,  for  the  night  was 
fine.  Anything  but  obtuse,  Willoughby  left  the  room  and 
came  back  with  the  key  of  Crossjay's  door  in  his  pocket. 
He  foresaw  that  the  delinquent  might  be  of  service  to  him. 

Laetitia  and  Clara  sang  together.  Lastitia  was  flushed, 
Clara  pale.  At  eleven  they  saluted  the  ladies  Eleanor  and 
Isabel.  Willoughby  said,  "  Good  night  "  to  each  of  them, 
contrasting  as  he  did  so  the  downcast  look  of  Laetitia  with 
Clara's  frigid  directness.  He  divined  that  they  were  off  to 
talk  over  their  one  object  of  common  interest,  Crossjay* 
Saluting  his  aunts,  he  took  up  the  rug,  to  celebrate  their 
diligence  and  taste ;  and  that  he  might  make  Dr.  Middleton 
impatient  for  bed,  he  provoked  him  to  admire  it,  held  it  out 

2c2 


3S3  THE   KGOTBT. 

and  l:ii  1  it  out,  nnd  caused  the  courteous  old  gentleman  some 

nsion  in  bitting  on  fresh  terms  of  commendation. 

fore  midnight  the  room  was  empty.     Ten  minutes  later, 

Willoughby  paid  it  a  visit,  and  found  it  untenanted  by  the 

person  Ik-  had  engaged   to  be  there.     Vexed  by  his  disap- 

pointment,  be  paced  up  and  down,  and  chanced  abstractedly 

to  catch  the  rug  in  his  hand  ;  for  what  purpose,  he  might  well 

himself;   admiration    of    ladies'    work,  in   their  absence, 

was  unlikely  to  occurto  him.      Nevertheless  the  touch  of  the 

warm   soft    silk    was   meltingly  feminine.     A  glance  at  the 

mantel-piece  clock  told    him  Laetitia  was  twenty  minutes 

behind  the  hour. 

Her  remissness  might  endanger  all  his  plans,  alter  the 
whole  course  of  his  life.  The  co-lours  in  which  he  painted 
her  were  too  lively  to  last  ;  the  madness  in  his  head  threat- 
ened to  subside.  Certain  it  was  that  he  could  not  be  ready  a 
second  night  for  the  sacrifice  he  had  been  about  to  perform. 

The  clock  was  at  the  half  hour  after  twelve.  He  flung 
the  silken  thing  on  the  central  ottoman,  extinguished  the 
lamps,  and  walked  out  of  the  room,  charging  the  absent 
La-tit  ia  to  bear  her  misfortune  with  a  consciousness  of  de- 
serving it. 


CHAPTER  XL. 


MIDNTGTTT:    SIR  WILLOUGHBY  AND  LATITIA  :   WITH 
YOUNG  CROSSJAY  UNDER  A  COVERLET. 

ToiJNd   Cross  jay  was    a   glutton  at  holidays    and    never 

thought  of  home  till  it  was  dark.  The  close  of  the  day  saw  him 

:ai  miles  away  from  the  Hall,  dubious  whether  he  would 

round  his  numerous  adventures  by  sleeping  at  an  inn; 

for  he  had  lots  of  money,  and  the  idea  of  jumping  up  in  the 

morning  in  a  strange  place  was  thrilling.      Besides,  when  he 

was  shaken  out  of  sleep   by   Sir  Willoughby,  he   had   been 

that  he  was  to  go,  and  not  to  show  his  face  at  Patterne 


MIDNIGHT.  389 

again.  On  the  other  hand,  Miss  Middleton  had  bidden  him 
come  back.  There  was  little  question  with  him  which  per- 
son he  should  obey  :  he  followed  his  heart. 

Supper  at  an  inn,  where  he  found  a  company  to  listen  to 
his   adventures,   delayed  him,  and   a  short  cut,  intended  to 
make  up   for  it,  lost  hira    his   road.     He   reached   the  Hall 
very  late,  ready  to  be  in  love  with  the  horrible  pleasure  of  a 
night's   rest   under  the   stars,  if   necessary.      But  a  candle 
burned   at  one  of  the  back  windows.     He  knocked,  and  a 
kitchen-maid  let  him  in.     She  had  a  bowl  of  hot  soup  pre- 
pared for  him.     Cross] ay  tried  a  mouthful  to  please  her. 
His  head  dropped  over  it.     She  roused  him  to  his  feet,  and 
he  pitched  against  her  shoulder.     The  dry  air  of  the  kitchen 
department  had  proved  too  much  for  the   tired  youngster. 
Mary,  the  maid,  got  him  to  step  as  firmly  as  he  was  able, 
and  led  him  by  the  back-way  to  the  hall,  bidding  him  creep 
noiselessly  to  bed.     He  understood  his  position  in  the  house, 
and  though  he  could  have  gone  fast  to  sleep  on  the  stairs, 
he  took  a  steady  aim  at  his  room  and  gained  the  door  cat- 
like.    The  door  resisted.     He  was  appalhd  and  unstrung  in 
a  minute.    The  door  was  locked.    Crossjay  felt  as  if  he  were 
in  the  presence  of  Sir  Willoughby.     He  fled  on  ricketty  legs, 
and  had  a  fall  and  bumps  down  half-a-dozen  stairs.     A  door 
opened  above.     He  rushed  across  the  hall  to  the  drawing- 
room,  invitingly  open,  and  there   staggered  in  darkness  to 
the  ottoman  and  rolled  himself  in  something  sleek  and  warm, 
soft  as  hands  of  ladies,  and  redolent  of    them  ;    so  delicious 
that  he  hugged  the  folds  about  his  head  and  heels.     While 
he  was  endeavouring  to  think  where  he  was,  his  legs  curled, 
his  eyelids  shut,  and  he  was  in  the  thick  of  the  cTay's  adven- 
tures, doing  yet  more  wonderful  things. 

He  heard  his  own  name  :  that  was  quite  certain.  He 
knew  that  he  heard  it  with  his  ears,  as  he  pursued  the 
fleetest  dreams  ever  accorded  to  mortal.  It  did  not  mix  :  it 
was  outside  him,  and  like  the  danger-pole  in  the  ice,  which 
the  skater  shooting  hither  and  yonder  comes  on  again,  it 
recurred;  and  now  it  marked  a  point  in  his  career,  now  it 
caused  him  to  relax  his  pace;  he  began  to  circle,  and  whirled 
closer  round  it,  until,  as  at  a  blow,  his  heart  knocked,  he 
tightened  himself,  thought  of  bolting,  and  lay  dead-still  to 
throb  and  hearken. 

"  Oh  !  Sir  Willoughby,"  a  voice  had  said. 


•  TDK  EGOIf  :•• 

The  nc-ccnts  were  Bharp  with  alarm. 
"  My  friend  !   my  dearest  !  "  was  i  lie  answer. 
11  I  i  ime  i"  Bpeak  of  ( Irossjay." 
'•  Will  you  sil  here,  on  t  be  ottoman  ?  " 
No,  1  cannot  wait.     1  hoped   I   bad  heard  Crossjay  ro« 

turn.     I  wonld  rather  not  sit  down.     May  I  entreat  you  to 

pardon  him  when  he  comes  home  ?  " 

*'  Von.  and  you  only,  may  do  so.     I  permit  none  else.      Of 

I        -  jay  to-morrow." 

••  Be  ma\  be  lying  in  the  fields.     We  are  anxious." 

"The  rascal  can  take  pretty  good  care  of  himself." 

" Crossjay  is  perpetually  meeting  accidents-" 

'*  Be  shall  be  indemnified  if   he  has  had  excess  of  punish- 

"  I  think  I  will  say  good  night,  Sir  Willoughby." 

"  When  freely  and  unreservedly  you  have  given  me  your 
hand.-' 

re  was  hesitation. 

"To  Bay  g 1  night  ?*' 

"  I  ask  for  your  hand." 

lit.  Sir  Willoughby," 

"  You  do  not  give  it.     Yon  are  in  doubt  ?     Still  ?      "What 

iust  1  use  to  convince  yon  ?      And  yet  you  know 

me.     Who  knows  me  but  you?      You  have  always  known 

5  "ii  arc  my  home  and  my  temple.'  Have  you  forgotten 

your  verses  for  the  day  of  my  majority  ? 

'"The  dawn-stnr  1ms  arisen 
m  lii  plenitude  of  lijjlit  ....'" 

Do  not  repeat  them,  pray  ! "  cried  Lretitia  with  a  pa«?p. 
"I   have   repeated   them  to  myself  a  thousand  times:  in 
India,  America,  Japan:  they  were  like  our  English  skylark 
oiling  to  me. 

*"  My  heart,  now  burst  thy  prison 
Willi  proud  aerial  flight! '" 

"  n''  '  I  1  i   will  not  force  me  to  listen  to  nonsense 

I  wrote  when  I  was  a  child.     No  more  of  those  most 
h  lines!      If  you  knew  what  it  is  to  write  and  despise 


MIDNIGHT.  391 

one's  -writing,  you  would  not  distress   me.     And  since  you 
will  not  speak  of  Crossjay  to-night,  allow  me  to  retire." 

"  You  know  me,  and  therefore  you  know  my  contempt  for 
verses,  as  a  rule,  Laetitia.  But  not  for  yours  to  me.  Why 
should  you  call  them  foolish  ?  They  expressed  your  feelings 
— I  hold  them  sacred.  They  are  something  religious  to  me, 
not  mere  poetry.  Perhaps  the  third  verse  is  my  favourite 
•  •      . 

"  It  will  be  more  than  I  can  bear ! " 
"  You  were  in  earnest  when  you  wrote  them  ?  " 
"  I  was  very  young,  very  enthusiastic,  very  silly." 
"  You  were  and  are  my  image  of  constancy  !  " 
"  It  is  an  error,  Sir  Willoughby  ;  I  am  far  from  being  the 
same." 

"  We  are  all  older,  I  trust  wiser.     I  am,  I  will  own;  much 
wiser.     Wise  at  last !     I  offer  you  my  hand." 
She  did  not  reply. 

"  I  offer  you  my  hand  and  name,  Laetitia  !  " 
No  response. 

"  You  think  me  bound  in  honour  to  another  ?  " 
She  was  mute. 

"  I  am  free.     Thank   heaven  !     I  am  free  to  choose  my 
mate — the  woman  I   have   always  loved !      Freely  and  un- 
reservedly, as  I  ask  you  to  give  your  hand,  I   offer  mine. 
You  are  the  mistress  of  Patterne  Hall ;  my  wife  !  " 
She  had  not  a  word. 

"  My  dearest !  do  you  not  rightly  understand  ?  The  hand 
I  am  offering  you  is  disengaged.  It  is  offered  to  the  .  lady  I 
respect  above  all  others.  I  have  made  the  discovery  that  I 
cannot  love  without  respecting;  and  as  I  will  not  marry 
without  loving,  it  ensues  that  I  am  free — I  ana  yours.  At 
last  ? — your  lips  move  :  tell  me  the  words.  Have  always  loved, 
I  said.  You  cany  in  your  bosom  the  magnet  of  constancy, 
and  I,  in  spite  of  apparent  deviations,  declare  to  you  that  I 
have  never  ceased  to  be  sensible  of  the  attraction.  And  now 
there  is  not  an  impediment.  AVe  two  against  the  world  !  we 
are  one.  Let  me  confess  to  an  old  foible — perfectly  youth- 
ful, and  you  will  ascribe  it  to  youth  :  once  I  desired  to  ab- 
sorb. I  mistrusted ;  that  was  the  reason :  I  perceive  it. 
You  teach  me  the  difference  of  an  alliance  with  a  lady  of 
intellect.  The  pride  I  have  in  you,  Lastitia.  definitively 
cures  me  of  that  insane  passion — call  it  an  insatiable  hunger 


392  TTTE  EGOIST. 

nize  J(  as  a  folly  of  youth.  I  have,  as  it  were,  gone 
the  tour,  to  come  home  to  you  at  last?  -and  live  our  manly 
life  of  comparative  equals.  At  last,  then  !  But  remember, 
thai  in  the  younger  man  yon  would  have  had  a  despot — 
baps  a  jealous  despot.  Young  men,  1  assure  you,  are 
orientally  inclined  in  their  ideas  of  love.  Love  gets  a  bad 
name  from  them.  We,  my  Laetitia,  do  not  regard  love  as  a 
Belfishness.  If  it  is,  it  is  the  essence  of  life.  At  least  it  is 
our  selfishness  iendered  beautiful.  I  talk  to  you  like  a  man 
who  has  found  a  compatriot  in  a  foreign  land.  It  seems  to 
me  that  I  have  not  opened  my  mouth  for  an  age.  lcettainly 
have  nnt  unlocked  my  heart.  Those  who  sing  for  joy  are 
not  unintelligible  to  me.  If  T  had  not  something  in  me 
worth  saying,  1  think  I  should  sing.  In  every  sense  you 
reconcile  me  lo  men  and  the  world,  Lastitia.  Why  press  you 
speak?  I  will  be  the  .speaker.  As  surely  as  you  know 
me,  1  know  you ;  and  .  .  .  ." 

Laetitia  burst  forth  with,  "No!" 

"  I  do  not  know  you?  "  said  he,  searchimdy  mellifluous. 

"Hardly." 

"  How  not?" 

"  I  am  changed  ?  *' 

"  In  what    way  ?  " 

"Deeply." 

"Sedater?" 

"  Materially." 

iur  will  come  back  :  have  no  fear;  I  promise  it.  If 
von  imagine  you  want  renewing,  I  have  the  specific,  I,  my 
lo\  e,  I  '  ' 

•  Forgive  me— will  you  tell  me,  Sir  Willoughby,  whether 
yon  have  broken  with  .Miss  Middleton  ?  " 

Etesl  satisfied,  my  dear  Loetitia.  She  is  as  free  as  I  am. 
t  can  do  no  more  than  a  man  of  honour  should  do.  She 
releases   me.     To-morrow   or   next    day   she   departs.     We, 

itia,  yon  and  I.  my  love,  are  home  birds.  It  does  not  do 
for  the  home  bud  to  couple  with  the  migratory.  The  little 
imperceptible  change  yon  allude  to,  is  nothing.  Italy  will 
•vou-  J  ;""  ready  to  stake  my  own  health— never  yet 
shaken  by  a  doctor  of  medicine:-  I  say  medicine  advisedly, 
''"  ,1"'1'1'  are  doctors  of  Divinity  who  would  shake  giants  :— 
that  an  Italian  trip  will  send  you  back— that  I  shall  bring 
you  home  from     Italy   a   blooming  bride.      You    shake    your 


MIDNIGHT.  893 

head — despondently  ?  My  love,  I  guarantee  it.  Cannot  1 
give  you  colour  ?  Behold!  Come  to  the  light,  look  in  the 
giass." 

"  I  may  redden,"  said  Lastitia.  "  I  suppose  that  is  due  to 
the  action  of  the  heart.  I  am  changed.  Heart,  for  any 
other  purpose,  I  have  not.  I  am  like  you,  Sir  Willoughby, 
in  this  :  I  could  not  marry  without  loving,  and  I  do  not  know 
what  love  is,  except  that  it  is  an  empty  dream." 

"  Marriage,  my  dearest  .  .  .  ." 

"You  are  mistaken." 

"  I  will  cure  you,  my  Laatitia.  Look  to  me,  I  am  the  tonic. 
It  is  not  common  confidence,  but  conviction.     I,  my  love,  I!' 

"  There  is  no  cure  for  what  I  feel,  Sir  Willoughby." 

"  Spare  me  the  formal  prefix,  I  beg.  You  place  your  hand 
in  mine,  relying  on  me.  I  am  pledged  for  the  remainder. 
We  end  as  we  began  :  my  request  is  for  your  hand — your 
hand  in  marriage." 

"  I  cannot  give  it." 

"  To  be  my  wife  !  " 

"  It  is  an  honour  :  I  must  decline  it." 

"Are  you  quite  well,  Lastitia  ?  I  propose  in  the  plainest 
terms  1  can  employ,  to  make  you  Lady  Patterne — mine." 

"  I  am  compelled  to  refuse." 

"  Why  ?     Refuse  ?     Your  reason  !  " 

"  The  reason  has  been  named." 

He  took  a  stride  to  inspirit  his  wits. 

'  There's  a  madness  comes  over  women  at  times,  I  know. 
Answer  me,  Laetitia : — by  all  the  evidence  a  man  can  have,  I 
could  swear  it : — but  answer  me  :  you  loved  me  once  ?  " 

"  I  was  an  exceedingly  foolish,  romantic  girl." 

"  You  evade  my  question  :  I  am  serious.  Oh  !  "  he  walked 
away  from  her,  booming  a  sound  of  utter  repudiation  of  her 
present  imbecility,  and  hurrying  to  her  side,  said  :  "  But  it 
was  manifest  to  the  whole  world  !  It  was  a  legend.  To  love 
like  Laetitia  Dale,  was  a  current  phrase.  You  were  an 
example,  a  light  to  women :  no  one  was  your  match  for 
devotion.  You  were  a  precious  cameo,  still  gazing !  And  J 
was  the  object.  You  loved  me.  You  loved  me,  you  belonged 
to  me,  you  were  mine,  my  possession,  my  jewel ;  I  was  prouder 
of  your  constancy  than  of  anything  else  that  I  had  on  earth. 
It  was  a  part  of  the  order  of  the  universe  to  me.     A  doubt  of 


894  THE   EGOIST. 

it  would  hnvo  disturbed  my  creed.  Why,  good  heaven!  where 
[a  not  hing  solid  on  earth  ?     You  loved  me  !  " 

•■  I  was  childish  indeed." 

■•  Yon  !,. .  ed  me  passionately  !  " 

••  1),,  you  insisl  on  shaming  me  through  and  thi*ough,  Sir 
Willoughby  P     1  have  been  exposed  enough. " 

"  You  cannot  blot  ont  the  past :  it  is  written,  itis  recorded. 
Y  .i  Loved  me  devotedly,  silence  is  no  escape.  You  loved 
me." 

•  I  did." 

"  Yon  never  loved  mo,  you  shallow  woman  !  'I  did  !'  As 
if  there  could  be  a  cessation  of  a  love  !  What  are  we  to 
reckon  on  as  ours  ?  "We  prize  a  woman's  love  ;  we  guard  it 
jealously,  we  trusl  to  it,  dream  of  it;  there  is  our  wealth; 
there  is  our  talisman  !  And  when  Ave  open  the  casket,  it  has 
flown  ! — barren  vacuity  ! — we  are  poorer  than  dogs.  As  well 
think  of  keeping  a  costly  wine  in  potter's  clay  as  love  in  the 
heart  of  a  woman  !  There  are  women — women  ?  Oh  !  they 
are  all  of  a  stamp — coin  !  Coin  for  any  hand  !  It's  a  fiction, 
an  imposture — they  cannot  love  !  They  are  the  shadows  of 
men.  Compared  with  men,  they  have  as  much  heart  in  them 
the  shadow  beside  the  body  !     Laetitia  !  " 

"Sir  Willoughby." 

'•  Yon  refuse  my  offer?" 

"I  nn. 

'•  You  refuse  to  take  me  for  your  husband  ?" 

"  1  ca-nnol  be  your  wife." 

"  You  have  changed  ?  .  .  .  .  You  have  set  yonr  heart  ? 
....  Yon  could  marry?  ....  there  is  a  man?  .... 
Yon  could  marry  one!  I  will  have  an  answer,  I  am  sick  of 
isions.  What  was  in  the  mind  of  heaven  when  women 
were  created,  will  be  the  riddle  to  the  end  of  the  world! 
Every  good  man  in  turn  lias  made  the  inquiry.  I  have  a 
riuht  to  know  who  robs  me — We  may  try  as  we  like  to  solve 
it. — Satan  is  painted  laughing! — I  say  I  have  a  right  to 
know  who  robs  me.     Answer  me." 

''  I  shall  not  marry." 

"  That  Is  not  an  answer." 

"  I  ]o\  e  qo  0] 

"You  loved  me. — You  are  silent  ? — but  you  confessed  it. 
Then  yon  confess  it  was  a  love  that  could  die  !  Are  you 
unable  to  perceive  how  that  redounds  to  my  discredit  ?     You 


MIDNIGHT.  395 

loved  me,  you  have  ceased  to  love  me.     In  other  words,  yon 
charge  me  with  incapacity  to  sustain  a  woman's  love.     You 
accuse  me  of  inspiring  a  miserable  passion   that  cannot  last 
a  life-time!     You  let  the  world  see  that  I  am  a  man  to  be 
aimed   at   for  a  temporary  mark  !      And  simply  because  I 
happen  to  be  in  your  neighbourhood  at  an  age  when  a  young 
woman  is  impressionable  !     You  make  a  public  example  of 
me  a  s  a  man  for  whom  women  may  have  a  caprice,  but  that 
is  all ;   he  cannot  enchain  them ;    he  fascinates  passingly ; 
they  fall  off.     Is  it  just,  for  me  to  be  taken  up  and  cast 
down  at  your  will  ?     Reflect  on  that  scandal !     Shadows  ? 
Why,  a  man's  shadow  is  faithful  to  him  at  least.     What  are 
women  ?     There  is  not  a  comparison  in  nature  that  does  not 
tower  above  them  !  not  one  that  does  not  hoot  at  them  !     I, 
throughout  my  life  guided  by  absolute  deference  to  their 
weakness — paying  them    politeness,   courtesy — whatever  I 
touch  I  am  happy  in,  except  when  I  touch  women  !     How  is 
it  ?     What  is  the  mystery  ?     Some  monstrous  explanation 
must  exist.     What  can  it  be  ?     I  am  favoured  by  fortune 
from  my  birth  until  I  enter  into  relations  with  women  !     But 
will  you  be  so  good  as  to  account  for  it  in  your  defence  of 
them  ?     Oh  !  were  the  relations  dishonourable,  it  would  be 
quite  another  matter.        Then  they  ....  I    could   recount 
....  I  disdain  to  chronicle   such  victories.     Quite  another 
matter !     But  they  are  flies,  and  I  am  something  more  stable. 
They  are  flies.     I  look  beyond  the  day ;  I  owe  a  duty  to  my 
line.     They  are  flies.     I  foresee  it,  I  shall  be  crossed  in  my 
fate  so  long  as  I  fail  to  shun  them — flies  !     Not  merely  born 
for  the  day,  I  maintain  that  they  are  spiritually  ephemeral. 
— Well,  my  opinion  of  your  sex  is  directly  traceable  to  you. 
You  may  alter  it,  or  fling  another  of  us  men  out  on  the 
world  with  the  old  bitter  experience.     Consider  this,  that  it 
is  on  your  head  if  my  ideal  of  women  is  wrecked.     It  rests 
with  you  to  restore  it.     1  love  you.     I  discover  that  you  are 
the  one  woman  I  have  always  loved.     I   come  to  you,  I  sue 
you,  and  suddenly — you  have  changed  !     '  I   have  changed : 
I  am  not  the  same.'     What  can  it  mean  ?     '  I  cannot  marry  : 
I  love  no  one.'     And  you  say  you  do  not  know  what  love  is — 
avowing  in  the  same  breath  that  you  did  love  me  !     Am  I 
the  empty   dream  ?       My  hand,    heart,   fortune,    name,   are 
yours,  at  your  feet :  you  kick  them  hence.     I  am  here — you 
reject  me.     But  why,  for  what  mortal  reason  am  I  here  other 


THK   EGOI8T. 

mv  faith  in  your  love?     You  drew  me  to  you,  to  repel 
:hed  re 
i1    3  :    t  that,  Sir  Willoughby." 

••  i;  i  any  possible  -  mthat  I  am  still  entangled, 

e  you  I  am,   perfectly  free  in    fact   and  in 

"It  is  not  i 

•  •  \  r  you  b  p  power.     Wonkl  you  have  me 

I  I'n  ':" 
■•  i  >h  !  no;  ir  would  complete  my  grief." 

■  Y  _         -      Then  von  believe  in  my  affection,  and 
i  hurl  it  away.     I  have  no  doubt   that   as   a  poetess,  you 

.  love  is  eternal.     And  you  have  loved  me.     And 

1  me  you  love  me  no  more.     You  are  not  very  logical, 

tia  Dale." 

•  p  .rely  are:  if  I  am  one,  which  I  little  pretend 

t  i  be  for  writing  silly  verses.     I  have  passed  out  of  thai 

delusion,  with  thi 

■  You  Bhall  not  '  iose  dear  old  days,  Latitia.     I  see 
them  now;  when  I  rode  by  your  cottage  and  you   were  at 

ir   window,  pen   in   hand,  your  hair  straying  over   your 

i  1.  :iantic,    yes;    not    foolish.       Why    were    you 

foolish  in  thinking  of  m<  ^<me  day  1  will  commission  an 

tist  to  paint  mi  I  of  you  from  my  description. 

And  I  remember  when  we  first  whispered  ....   I  remember 

Sou    have    forgotten — I    remember.      1 
ruber  our  meeting  in  the  park  on  the  path   to   church. 
I  :  er  the  heavenly  morning  of  my  return  from  my 

ti  and    the    same   Laetitia    meeting  me,    stedfast   and 

an  able.      Could  I  ever   forget  ?      Those   are   ineradi- 

:  pictures  of  my  youth,  interwouud  with  me.     I 
in  b  as  I  recede  from  them.  I    dwell  on  them   the 

more.     Tell  me,  Laetitia,  was  there  not  a  certain  prophecy 
of  your  mcernii  two?     I  fancy  I   heard  of 

one.     Tl. 

!;  -  an  invalid.     Elderly  people  nurse  illusions." 

who  is  the  obstacle  to  the  fulfil- 
ment of  his  prediction  r — truth,  if  ever  a  truth  was   fore- 
em    on    earth  !      You    have    not   changed   so   far   that    you 
\\  eel    no   pleasure    in    gratifying   him?      I   go  to  him 

to-  with  the  first  light." 

'■  You  will  compel  me  to  follow,  and  undeceive  him." 


MIDNIGHT.  :j'J7 

u  Do  so,  and  I  denounce  an  unworthy  affection  you  are 
ashamed  to  avow." 

"  That  would  be  idle,  though  it  would  be  base." 
"  Proof  of  love,  then  !     For  no  one  but  you  should  it   be 
done,  and  no  one  but  you  dare  accuse  me  of  a  baseness." 

"  Sir  Willcraghby,  you  will  let  my  father  die  in  peace." 

"  He  and  I  together  will  contrive  to  persuade  you." 

"  You  tempt  me  to  imagine  that  you  want  a  wife  at  any 
cost." 

"  You,  Lnetitia,  you." 

"  I  am  tired,"  she  said.  "  It  is  late,  I  would  rather  not 
hear  more.  I  am  sorry  if  I  have  caused  you  pain.  I  sup- 
pose you  to  have  spoken  with  candour.  I  defend  neither 
my  sex  nor  mvself.  I  can  only  say,  I  am  a  woman  as  good 
as  dead  :  happy  to  be  made  happy  in  my  way,  but  so  little 
alive  that  I  carnot  realize  any  other  way.  As  for  love,  I 
am  thankful  to  have  broken  a  spell.  You  have  a  younger 
woman  in  vour  mind  ;  I  am  an  old  one:  I  have  no  ambition 
and  no  warmth.  My  utmost  prayer  is  to  float  on  the 
stream — a  purely  physical  desire  of  life  :  I  have  no  strength 
to  swim.  Such  a  woman  is  not  the  wife  for  you,  Sir  Wil- 
loughby.     Good  night." 

"  One  final  word.  Weigh  it.  Express  no  conventional 
regrets.     Kesolutelv  you  refuse  ?" 

"  Resolutely  I  do"." 

"  You  refuse  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  have  sacrified  my  pride  for  nothing  !     You  refuse  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Humbled  myself!  And  this  is  the  anssver!  You  do 
refuse  ?" 

"  I  do." 

"  Good  night,  Lsetitia  Hale." 

He  gave  her  passage. 

"  Good  night,  Sir  Willoughby." 

"I  am  in  your  power,"  he  said  in  a  voice  between  sup- 
plication and  menace  that  laid  a  claw  on  her,  and  she  turneJ 
and  replied : 

"  You  will  not  be  betrayed." 

"I  can  trust  you  ?...." 

"  I  go  home  to-morrow  before  breakfast." 

"  Permit  rac  to  escort  you  upstairs." 


:V,\$  THE  ICG01ST. 

"If  von  please :  but  I  see  no  one  here  either  to-night  or 
to-moi  row. ' 

•■  li  is  for  the  privilege  of  seeing  the  last  of  you." 

They  wit  hdrew. 

Xoung  Crossjay  listened  to  the  drumming  of  his  head. 
Somewhere  in  or  over  the  cavity  a  drummer  rattled  tre- 
mendously. 

Willoughby's  laboratory-door  shut  Avith  a  slam. 

Crossjay  tumbled  himself  oif  the  ottoman.  He  stole  up 
to  the  unclosed  drawing-room  door,  and  peeped.  Never  was 
a  boy  more  thoroughly  awakened.  His  object  was  to  get 
out  of  the  house  a.  ad  go  through  the  night  avoiding  every- 
thing human,  for  he  was  big  with  information  of  a  character 
that  lie  knew  to  be  of  the  nature  of  gunpowder,  and  he 
feared  to  explode.  He  crossed  the  hall.  In  the  passage  to 
the  scullery,  he  ran  against  Colonel  De  Craye. 

"  So  there  you  are,"  said  the  colonel,  "  I've  been  hunting 

you." 

Crossjay  related  that  his  bed  room  door  was  locked  and 
the  key  gone,  and  Sir  Willoughby  sitting-up  in  the  labora- 
t«  iry. 

Colonel  De  Crave  took  the  boy  to  his  own  room,  where 
Crossjay  lay  on  a  sofa,  comfortably  covered  over  and  snug  in 
a  swelling  pillow;  but  he  was  restless;  he  wanted  to  speak, 
to  bellow,  to  cry  ;  and  he  bounced  round  to  his  leftside,  and 
bounced  to  his  right,  not  knowing  what  to  think,  except 
that  there  was  treason  to  his  adored  Miss  Middleton. 

*•  Why,  my  lad,  you're  not  half  a  campaigner,"  the  colonel 
called  out  to  him;  attributing  his  uneasiness  to  the  material 
discomfort  of  the  sofa:  and  Crossjay  had  to  swallow  the 
taunt,  bitter  though  it  was.  A  dim  sentiment  of  impro- 
priety in  unburdening  his  overcharged  mind  on  the  subject 
of  Miss  Middleton  to  Colonel  De  Craye,  restrained  him  from 
defending  himself ;  and  so  he  heaved  and  tossed  about  till 
daybreak.  At  an  early  hour,  while  his  hospitable  friend, 
who  looked  very  handsome  in  profile  half  breast  and  head 
above  the  sheets,  continued  to  slumber,  Crossjay  was  on  his 
legs  and  away. 

'  He  says  I'm  not  half  a  campaigner,  and  a  couple  of 
hours  of  bed  are  enough  for  me,"  the  boy  thought  proudly, 
ami  snuffed  the  springing  air  of  the  young  sun  on  the  fields. 
A  glance  back  at  Patterne  Hall  dismayed  him,  for  he  knew 


DE.  MIDDLETON  :    CLAEA  :    SIR  WILLOUGHBY.  399 

not  how  to  act,  and  he  was  immoderately  combustible,  too 
full  of  knowledge  for  self-containment ;  much  too  zealously- 
excited  on  behalf  of  his  dear  Miss  Middleton  to  keep  silent 
for  many  hours  of  the  day. 


CHAPTER  XL1. 

THE  REV.  DR.  MIDDLETON,  CLARA,  AND  SIR  WILLOUGHBY. 

When  Master  Crossjay  tumbled  down  the  stairs,  La?titia 
was  in  Clara's  room,  speculating  on  the  various  mishaps 
which  might  have  befallen  that  battered  youngster ;  and 
Clara  listened  anxiously  after  Lastitia  had  run  out,  until 
she  heard  Sir  Willoughby's  voice ;  which  in  some  way  satis- 
fied her  that  the  boy  was  not  in  the  house. 

She  waited,  expecting  Miss  Dale  to  return ;  then  un- 
dressed, went  to  bed,  tried  to  sleep.  She  was  tired  of  strife. 
Strange  thoughts  for  a  young  head  shot  through  her:  as, 
that  it  is  possible  for  the  sense  of  duty  to  counteract  dis- 
taste ;  and  that  one  may  live  a  life  apart  from  one's  admira- 
tions and  dislikes :  she  owned  the  singular  strength  of  Sir 
"Willoughby  in  outwearying  :  she  asked  herself  how  much 
she  had  gained  by  struggling  : — every  effort  seemed  to  ex- 
pend her  spirit's  force,  and  rendered  her  less  able  to  get  the 
clear  vision  of  her  prospects,  as  though  it  had  .sunk  her 
deeper  :  the  contrary  of  her  intention  to  make  each  further 
step  confirm  her  liberty.  Looking  back,  she  marvelled  at 
the  things  she  had  done.  Looking  round,  how  ineffectual 
they  appeared  !  She  had  still  the  great  scene  of  positive 
rebellion  to  go  through  with  her  father. 

The  anticipation  of  that  was  the  cause  of  her  extreme 
discouragement.  He  had  not  spoken  to  her  since  he  became 
aware  of  her  attempted  flight:  but  the  scene  was  coming; 
and  besides  the  wish  not  to  inflict  it  on  him,  as  well  as  to 
escape  it  herself,  the  girl's  peculiar  unhappiness  lay  in  her 
knowledge  that  they  were  alienated  and  stood  opposed 
owing  to  one  among  the  more  perplexing  masculine  weak- 
nesses, which  she  could  not  hint  at,  dared  barely  think  of, 


Till:  EGOIST. 

uii'l  would  not  name  in  her  meditations.     Diverting  to  other 

tllowed   herself  to  exclaim:    "Wine!    wine!" 

:■  of  w  bat  there  could  be  in  wine  to  entrap 

le  men  and  ohscure  their  judgements.     She  was  too 

der  tli.it    her  being  very  much  in  the  wrong 

:  the  importance  fco  the  cordial  glass  in  a  venerable 

ppreciation  of  his  dues.     Why  should  he  fly 

i  a  priceless  vrine  to  gratify  the  caprices  of  ;i  fantastical 

child  guilty  "t'  Beeking  to  commit  a  breach  of  faith  ?     He 

harped   on   those  words.     Her  fault  was  grave.     Xo  doubt 

the  wine  coloured  it  lo  hitu.  as  a  drop  or  two  will  do  in  any 

n  :    Still  her  fault   was  L'Ta\  e. 

She  was   too  young  for  such   considerations.      She.  was 

to  i     pal     te  "ii  the  gravity  of  her  fault,  so  long  as  the 

humiliation    assisted    to    her  disentanglement:    her    snared 

in  the   toils    would   not   permit  her  to  reflect  on  it 

farther.      She  had  never  accurately  perceived  it:   for  the 

aps  thai  Willoughby  had  not  been  moving  in  his 

appeals  :  but,  admitting  the  charge  of  waywardness,  she  had 

•  •  terms  with  conscience,  upon  the  understanding  that 

Bhe  was  to  perceive  it  and   regret  it  and  do  penance  for  it 

ind-by: — by    renouncing    marriage    altogether?       How 

light  a  penai  ee  ! 

In  the  morning,  she  went  to  Laetitia's  room,  knocked  and 

had    I. 

Shi  Informed   at  the  breakfast-table  of  Miss  Dale's 

re.  The  ladies  Eleanor  and  Isabel  feared  it  to  be  a 
;.  at  the  cottage.  Xo  one  had  seen  Vernon, 
and  Clara  requested  Colonel  De  Craye  to  walk  over  to  the 
cottage  lor  news  of  Crossjay.  He  accepted  the  commission, 
Bimply  t..  obey  and  be  in  her  service  :  assuring  her,  however, 
that  th(  -  no  need  to  he  disturbed  about  the  boy.      He 

would  have  told   her  more,  had  not  Dr.  Middleton  led  her 
out. 

•■  Willoughby  marked  a  lapse  of  ten  minutes  by  his 
watch.  His  excellent  aunts  had  ventured  a  comment  on  his 
app<  arance  that  frightene  1  him  lest  he  himself  should  be  the 

istounding  discomfiture.     He  regarded 

an  act   of  madness,  and   Laetitia's  as  no  less 

that    of  a   madwoman— happily  mad  !       Very  happily   mad 

Her  rejection  of  his  ridiculously  generous  proposal 

how  an  intervening  hand  in  his  favour,  that  sent 


DR.  MIDDLETON:    CLARA:    STR  WILLOUOnRY.  401 

her  distraught  at  the  right  moment.  He  entirely  trusted 
her  to  be  discreet ;  hut  she  was  a  miserable  creature,  who 
had  lost  the  one  last  chance  offered  her  by  Providence,  and 
furnished  him  with  a  signal  instance  of  the  mediocrity  of 
woman's  love. 

Time  was  flying.  In  a  little  while  Mrs.  Mountstuart 
would  arrive.  He  could  not  fence  her  without  a  design  in 
his  head ;  he  was  destitute  of  an  armoury  if  he  had  no 
scheme:  he  racked  the  brain  only  to  succeed  in  rousing 
phantasmal  vapours.  Her  infernal  '  Twice  ;'  would  cease 
now  to  apply  to  Ltetitia :  it  would  be  an  echo  of  Lady 
Busshe.  Nay,  were  all  in  the  secret,  Thrice  jilted!  might 
become  the  universal  roar.  And  this,  he  reflected  bitterly, 
of  a  man  whom  nothing  but  duty  to  his  line  had  arrested 
from  being  the  most  mischievous  of  his  class  with  women  ! 
Such  is  our  reward  for  uprightness  ! 

At  the  expiration  of  fifteen  minutes  by  his  watch,  he 
struck  a  knuckle  on  the  libi-ary-door.  Dr.  Middleton  held 
it  open  to  him. 

"  You  are  disengaged,  sir  ?" 

"  The  sermon  is  upon  the  paragraph  which  is  toned  to 
awaken  the  clerk,"  replied  the  Rev.  doctor. 

Clara  was  weeping. 

Sir  Willoughby  drew  near  her  solicitously. 

Dr.  Middleton's  mane  of  silvery  hair  was  in  a  state  bearing 
witness  to  the  vehemence  of  the  sermon,  and  Willoughby 
said  :  "  I  hope,  sir,  you  have  not  made  too  much  of  a  trifle." 

"  I  believe,  sir,  that  I  have  produced  an  effect,  and  that 
was  the  point  in  contemplation." 

"  Clara  !  my  dear  Clara  !"  Willoughby  touched  her. 

"  She  sincerely  repents  her  conduct,  I  may  inform  you," 
said  Dr.  Middleton. 

'"  My  love  !"  Willoughby  whispered.  "  We  have  had  a 
misunderstanding-.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  discover  where  I  have 
been  guilty,  but  I  take  the  blame,  all  the  blame.  I  implore 
you  not  to  weep.  Do  me  the  favour  to  look  at  me.  I  would 
not  have  had  you  subjected  to  any  interrogation  whatever." 

"  You  are  not  to  blame,"  Clara  said  on  a  sob. 

"  Undoubtedly  Willoughby  is  not  to  blame.  It  was  not  he 
who  was  bound  on  a  runaway  errand  in  flagrant  breach  of 
duty  and  decorum,  nor  he  who  inflicted  a  catarrh  on  a  brother 
of  my  craft  and  cloth,"  said  her  father. 

2  D 


Tin:  EGOIST. 
•  ■  ■  lerk,  sir,  has   pronounced   Amen,"  observed  Wil- 

.-lil>v. 

\',|  in.  man  Is  happier  to  hear  an  ejaculation  that  he 

laboured  for  with  so  much  sweat  of  liis  brow  than  the 

on,   I  ran  assure  you,"    Dr.  Middleton  mildly  groaned. 

••  I  have  notions  of  the  trouble  of  Abraham.     A  sermon  of 

that  description  i^  an  immolation  of  the  parent,  however  it 

may  go  w  n  li  t  he  child." 

Willoughby  sool  hed  his  <  !lara. 

■•  1  wish  I  had  been  here  to  i  hare  it.     I  might  have  saved 
yon  some  tears.      I  may  have  been  hasty  in  our  little  dissen- 
I  will  acknowledge  that  I  have  been.     My  temper  is 
:  ascible." 

Lfl  mine!"  exclaimed  Dr.  Middleton.  "  And  yet  1 
am  not  aware  that  I  made  the  worse  husband  for  it.  Nor 
do  1  rightly  comprehend  how  a  probably  justly  exciteable 
temper  can  stand  for  a  plea  in  mitigation  of  an  attempt  at 

an  out  rag ls  breach  of  fail  h." 

"  The  sermon  is  over,  sir." 

■  I;.  .  erberai  ioi  - !"  t  he  Rev.  doctor  waved  his  arm  placably. 
"Take  it  lor  thunder  heard  remote." 

'  Your  hand,  my  love,"  Willoughby  murmured. 
The  hand  was   not    put   forth. 

Dr.  Middleton  remarked  the  fact.  He  walked  to  the 
window,  and  perceiving  the  pair  in  the  same  position  when 
he  faced  about  he  delivered  a  cough  of  admonition. 

'•It  is  cruel  '"  said  <  Jlara. 

'Thai    the  owner  of  your  hand  should  petition  you  for 
inquired  her  fat  hi 

She  Bonght  refuge  in  a  fit  of  tears. 

Willoughby  bent  above  her,  mute. 
1      B     -erne    that    is    hardly   conceivable    as    a    parent's 
obligation  once  in  a  lustrum,  to  be  repeated  within  the  half 

hour  :"  shouted  her  fat  her. 

She  drew  up  her  shoulders  and  shook  ;  let  them  fall  and 
dropped  her  hi  ad. 

"  My  dearest  !  your  hand  !"  fluted  Willoughby. 

The  hand  surrendered;  it  was  much  like  the  icicle  of  a 
sudden  thaw. 

W  illoughby  squeezed  it  to  his  ribs. 

Dr.  Middleton  marched  up  and  down  the  room  with  hia 


Dfi.  MIDDLETON  :    CLAEA-    SIR  WILLOUGITBY.  403 

arms  locked  behind  him.     The   silence  between  the  young 
people  seemed  to  denounce  his  presence. 

He  said  cordially  :  "  Old  Hiems  has  but  to  withdraw  for 
buds  to  burst.  '  Jam  ver  egelidos  refert  tepores.'  The 
sequinoctial  fury  departs.     I  will  leave  you  for  a  term." 

Clara  and  Willoughby  simultaneously  raised  their  faces 
with  opposing  expressions. 

"  My  girl  ?"  her  father  stood  by  her,  laying  gentle  hand 
on  her. 

"  Yes,  papa,  I  will  come  out  to  you,"  she  replied  to  his 
apology  for  the  rather  heavy  weight  of  his  vocabulary,  and 
smiled. 

"  No,  sir,  I  beg  you  will  remain,"  said  Willoughby. 

"  I  keep  you  frost-bound." 

Clara  did  not  deny  it. 

Willoughby  emphatically  did. 

Then  which  of  them  was  the  more  lover-like  ?  Dr.  Mid- 
dleton  would  for  the  moment  have  supposed  his  daughter. 

Clara  said :  "  Shall  you  be  on  the  lawn,  papa  ?" 

Willoughby  interposed.  "  Stay,  sir ;  give  us  your  bless- 
ing." 

"  That  you  have."  Dr.  Middleton  hastily  motioned  the 
paternal  ceremony  in  outline. 

"  A  few  minutes,  papa,"  said  Clara. 

"  Will  she  name  the  day  ?"  came  eagerly  from  Wil- 
loughby. 

"  I  cannot !"  Clara  cried  in  extremity. 

"  The  day  is  important  on  its  arrival,"  said  her  father , 
"  but  I  apprehend  the  decision  to  be  of  the  chief  import- 
ance at  present.  First  prime  your  piece  of  artillery,  my 
friend." 

''  The  decision  is  taken,  sir." 

"  Then  I  will  be  out  of  the  way  of  the  firing.  Hit  what 
day  you  please." 

Clara  checked  herself  on  an  impetuous  exclamation.  It 
was  done  that  her  father  might  not  be  detained. 

Her  astute  self-compression  sharpened  Willoughby  as 
much  as  it  mortified  and  terrified  him.  He  understood  how 
he  would  stand  in  an  instant  were  Dr.  Middleton  absent. 
Her  father  was  the  tribunal  she  dreaded,  and  affairs  must 
be  settled  and  made  irrevocable  while  he  was  with  them 

2  u2 


404  THB  EG0I8T. 

the  blood  of  the  girl,  he  called  her  his  darling,  and 
hall  tnd  her,  Bhadow  ii  g  forth  a  salute. 

She  strung  her  body  to  submit,  seeing  her  father  take  it 

••  his  immediate  rel  ii*i   nenl . 
\\  illougbby  was  npon  him  before  be  reached  the  door. 
'•  lb  ar  iis  .nit.  sir.     Do  not  go.     Stay,  al  my  entreaty.     I 

we  have  m>t  come  to  a  perfect  reconcilement." 
••  It"  thai  is  your  opinion,"  said  Clara,  "it  is  good  reason 
for  nut  distressing  my  father." 

■   Dr.  Middleton,  1  Love  your  daughter.     I  wooed  her  and 
her;   1   had  your  consent  to  our  union,  and  I  was  the 
bappii  -i  of  mankind.     In  Borne  way,  since  her  coming  to  my 
I  I  know  in  it   how—  Bhe  will  not  tell  me,  or  cannot — I 

aded.     ( >ii"   may   he  innocent  and  offend.     I  have  never 
pretended  to  impeccability,  which  is  an  admission  that  I  may 
naturally  offend.     My  appeal  to  her  is  for  an  explana- 
tion or  for  pardon,     I  obtain   neither.     Had  our  positions 
i.   iih!   not  for  any  real  offence — not  for  the 
can  be  imagined — 1  think  not — I  hope  not — could 
I    have    been    tempted    to    propose   the   dissolution   of   our 
ent.     To  love  is  to  love,   with   me;  an  engagement 
it  urn   hond.     "With   all  my  errors  I  have  that  merit  of 
:•  fidelity — to  the  world  laughable  !     I  confess  to  a  mul- 
fcitude  of  errors ;   1  have  thai   single  merit,  and  am  not  tho 
more  estimable  in  your  daughter's  eyes  on  account  of  it,  I 
In  plain  words,  1  am,  I  do  not  doubt,  one  of  the  fools 
among  men;    of  the  description  of   human   dog   commonly 
known  as  faithful — whose  destiny  is  thai  of  a  tribe.     A  man 
who  cries  oul  when  he  is  hurt  is  absurd,  and  I  am  not  asking 
ympathy.     Call  me  luckless.     But  I  abhor  a  breach  of 
a.     A  broken  pledge  is  hateful  to  me.     I  should  regard 
i'  in  in;  a  form  of  suicide.     There  are  principles  which 

civilized  men  must  contend  for.     Our  social  fabric  is  based 
them.     As  my  word  stands  forme,  I  hold  others  to  theirs. 
Jt  thai  i    nol  done,  the  world  is  more  or  less  a  carnival  of 
In   tins  instance — Ah!  Clara,  my  love!   and 
have  principles:  you  have  inherited,  you  have  been  in- 
i   with    them:    have    I.    then,   in    my    ignorance 
I  past  penitence,  that  you,  of  all  women  ?  ....  And 
without  being  able  to  name  my  sin!— Not  only  for  what  I 
I         by    it.    but    in  the  abstract,  judicially— apart  from  the 

I  interest,  grief,   pain,   and  the  possi. 


DR.  MIDDLETON  :    CLARA  !    SIR  WILLOUGHBY.  40,5 

bility  of  my  having  to  endure  that  which  no  temptation 
would  induce  me  to  commit : — judicially  ; — I  fear,  sir,  I  am 
a  poor  forensic  orator.   .  .   ." 

"  The  situation,  sir,  does  not  demand  a  Cicero :  proceed," 
said  Dr.  Middleton,  balked  in  his  approving  nods  at  the 
right  true  things  delivered. 

"  Judicially,  I  am  bold  to  say,  though  it  may  appear  a 
presumption  in  one  suffering  acutely,  I  abhor  a  breach  of 
faith." 

Dr.  Middleton  brought  his  nod  down  low  upon  the  phrase 
he  had  anticipated.  "  And  I,"  said  he,  "  personally,  and 
presently,  abhor  a  breach  of  faith.  Judicially  ?  Judicially 
to  examine,  judicially  to  condemn:  but  does  the  judicial 
mind  detest  ?  I  think,  sir,  we  are  not  on  the  Bench  when 
we  say  that  we  abhor :  we  have  unseated  ourselves.  Yet 
our  abhorrence  of  bad  conduct  is  very  certain.  You  would 
signify,  impersonally :  which  suffices  for  this  exposition  of 
your  feelings." 

He  peered  at  the  gentleman  under  his  brows,  and  resumed: 
"  She  has  had  it,  Willoughby  ;  she  has  had  it  plain  Saxon 
and  in  uncompromising  Olympian.  There  is,  I  conceive,  no 
necessity  to  revert  to  it." 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,  but  I  am  still  unforgiven." 

"  You  must  babble  out  the  rest  between  you.  I  am  about 
as  much  at  home  as  a  turkey  with  a  pair  of  pigeons." 

"  Leave  us,  father,"  said  Clara. 

"  First  join  our  hands,  and  let  me  give  you  that  title, 
sir." 

"  Reach  the  good  man  your  hand,  my  girl ;  forthright, 
from  the  shoulder,  like  a  brave  boxer.  Humour  a  lover. 
He  asks  for  his  own." 

"  It  is  more  than  I  can  do,  father." 

"  How,  it  is  more  than  you  can  do  ?  You  are  engaged  to 
him,  a  plighted  woman." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  marry." 

"  The  apology  is  inadequate." 

"  I  am  unworthy  .  .   .  ." 

"Chatter!  chatter!" 

"  I  beg  him  to  release  me." 

"  Lunacy !" 

"  I  have  no  love  to  give  him." 

"  Have  you  gone  back  to  your  cradle,  Clara  Middleton  ?" 


(ill)  THE   EGOIST. 

••  |  » » i     |i  ive  us,  dear  father." 

••  v.-  otlence,  Clara,  m\  eel     What  is  it  ?    "Will  yon 

nnl--  name  it  ?" 

•  Father,   will   you  leave  us?     We  can  better  speak  to- 
ri- .  .  .  ." 

•  We   have   spoken,   Clara,    how  often !"  Willoughby   re- 
sumed, "  with  what  loult  p" — that  you  loved  me,  that  you 

i  ed  t'>  love  mo:  that  your  heart  was  mine,  that  you 
have  withdrawn  it.  plucked  it  from  me:  that  yon  request 
in.-  to  consenl  to  a  sacrifice  involving  my  reputation,  my  life. 
And  what  have  I  done?  I  am  the  same,  unchangeable.  I 
loved  ami  Love  yon  :  my  heart  was  yours,  and  is,  and  will  be 
yours  for  ever.  You  are  my  affianced — that  is,  my  wife. 
What  have  I  d 

"  Ir  is  indeed  useless,"  Clara  sighed. 
Noi    iseless,  my  girl,  that  you  should  inform  this  gentle- 
man, your  affianced  husband,  of  the  ground  of  the  objection 
rived  against  him." 
"  I  cannot  say." 
"Do  you  know?" 

"  If   1  could  name  it,  I  could  hope  to  overcome  it." 
Dr.  Middleton  addressed  Sir  Willoughby. 
'  I    verily  believe  we  are  directing  the  girl  to  dissect  a 
caprice.     Such  things  are  seen  large  by  these  young  people, 
hut  as  they  have  neither  organs  nor  arteries,  nor  brains,  nor 
membranes,  dissection   and  inspection  will  be  alike  profit- 
lessly  practised.     Your  inquiry  is  natural  for  a  lover,  whose 
passion   to  inter  into  relations  with  the  sex  is  ordinarily  in 
proportion  to   his  igmxrance  of  the  stuff  composing  them. 
At  a  particular  aire  they  traffic  in  whims:   which  are,  I  pre- 
sume, the  spiritual  of  hysterics;  and  are  indubitably  pre- 
long  as  they  are  not  pu: shed  too  far.     Examples 
are  not  wanting  to  prove  that  a  flighty  initiative  on  the  part 
of  the  male  is  a  handsome  corrective.  In  that  case,  we  should 
probably  have  had   the  roof  off  the  house,  and  the  girl  now 
feet.     Ha  !" 

:>i-e  me.  father.  I  am  punished  for  ever  thinking 
myself  the  Buperior  of  any  woman,"  said  Clara. 

r  hand  out  to  him,  my  dear,  since  he  is  for  a  formal 
■  ciliation  :  and  I  can't  wonder." 

ber  !     I  have  said  I  do  not  ....  I  have  said  I  can- 
..." 


DR.  MIDDLETON  :    CLARA  :    SIR  WILLOUGHBY.  407 

"  By  the  most  merciful !  "what  ?  what  ?  the  name  for  it ! 
words  for  it  !" 

"  Do  not  frown  on  me,  father.  I  wish  him  happiness.  I 
cannot  marry  him.     I  do  not  love  him." 

"  You  will  remember  that  you  informed  me  aforetime  that 
you  did  love  him." 

"  I  was  ignorant  ....  I  did  not  know  myself.  I  wish 
him  to  be  happy." 

"  You  deny  him  the  happiness  you  wish  him  !" 

"  It  would  not  be  for  his  happiness  were  I  to  wed  him." 

"  Oh  !"  burst  from  Willoughby. 

'  You  hear  him.  He  rejects  your  prediction,  Clara  Middle- 
ton." 

She  caught  her  clasped  hands  up  to  her  throat.  "Wretched, 
wretched,  both  !" 

"  And  you  have  not  a  word  against  him,  miserable  girl !" 

"  Miserable  !     I  am." 

"  It  is  the  cry  of  an  animal !" 

"  Yes,  father." 

"  You  feel  like  one  ?  Your  behaviour  is  of  that  shape. 
You  have  not  a  word  ?" 

"  Against  myself :  not  against  him." 

"  And  I,  when  you  speak  so  generously,  am  to  yield  you  ? 
give  you  up?"  cried  Willoughby.  "Ah!  my  love,  my  Clara, 
impose  what  you  will  on  me  ;  not  that.  It  is  too  much  for 
man.     It  is,  I  swear  it,  beyond  my  strength." 

"  Pursue,  continue  the  strain  :  'tis  in  the  right  key,"  said 
Dr  Middleton,  departing. 

Willoughby  wheeled  and  waylaid  him  with  a  bound. 

"  Plead  for  me,  sir ;  you  are  all-powerful.  Let  her  be 
mine,  she  shall  be  happy,  or  I  will  perish  for  it.  I  will  call 
it  on  my  head. — Impossible  !  I  cannot  lose  her.  Lose  you, 
my  love  ?  It  would  be  to  strip  myself  of  every  blessing  of 
body  and  soul.  It  would  be  to  deny  myself  possession  of 
grace,  beauty,  wit,  all  the  incomparable  charms  of  loveliness 
of  mind  and  person  in  woman,  and  plant  myself  in  a  desert. 
You  are  my  mate,  the  sum  of  everything  I  call  mine.  Clara, 
I  should  be  less  than  man  to  submit  to  such  a  loss.  Consent 
to  it  ?  But  I  love  you  !  1  worship  you  !  How  can  I  consent 
to  lose  you  ?  .  .  .  ." 

He  saw  the  eyes  of  the  desperately  wily  young  woman 


Till    EGOIST. 

k  sideways.     Dr.  Middleton  was  pacing  at  ever  shorter 
by  the  door. 
••  y,,!i  hate  m  lloughby  sank  his  voice. 

"  it'  i!  Bhould  turn  to  hate!"  she  murmured. 
'•  Hatred  of  your  husband  ?" 

"  l  could  ii"t  promise,"  Bhe  murmured  more  softly  in  her 
wil 

■■  1 1;. i  red  ':"  he  cried  aloud,  and  Dr.  Middleton  stopped  in 
lung  np  his  head  ;  "Hatred  of  your  husband  ? 
e  vowed  to  love  and  honour?     Oh!  no. 
e  mine,  it  is  not  to  be  Eeared.     I  trust  to  my  knowledge 
ture;  I  trusl  In  your  blood,  I  trust  in  your  educa- 
tion.    Had  I  Dothing  else  to  inspire  confidence,  I  could  trust 
inyoureyes.   And  Clara,  take  the  confession :  I  would  rather 
be  hated  than  lose  you.     For  if  I  lose  you,  you  are  in  another 
world,  out  of  this  one  holding  me  in  its  death-like  cold  :  but 
if  von  hate  me,  we  are  together,  we  are  still  together.     Any 
alliance,  any.  in  preference  to  separation!" 

Clara  listened  with  a  critical  ear.     His  language  and  tone 

were  new ;  and   comprehending  that  they  were  in  part  ad- 

dressed  I  i  her  father,  whose  phrase:  "A  breach  of  faith:" 

he  had  so  cunningly  used,  disdain  of  the  actor  prompted  the 

eme  blunder  of  her  saving — frigidly  though  she  said  it: 

"  You  have  not  talked  to  me  in  this  way  hefore." 

"  Finally,"  remarked  her  father,  summing  up  the  situation 

M  le  it  from  that  little  speech,"he  talks  to  you  in  this 

way  now  ;  and  yon   are  under  my  injunction  to  stretch  your 

haul   out   to   him   for  a  symbol  of  union,  or  to  state  your 

■  -i  ;i  m   to  thai  course.      He,byyour  admission,  is  at  the 

.nus.  and  there,  failing  the  why  not,  must  you  join  him." 

Her  head  whirled.     She  had  been  severely  flagellated  and 

I  previous  to  Wllloughby's  entrance.     Language  to 

her  peculiar  repulsion  eluded  her.     She  formed  the 

md   perceived  thai   they  would  not  stand  to  bear  a 

ili  from  h<  r  father.     She  perceived  too  that  Willoughby 

ready  with  his  agony  of  supplication  as  she  with  hers. 

he   had    I  for  a   resource,  he   had  gestures,  quite  as 

bi  i't  :  and  a  cry  of  her  loathing  of  the  union  would  fetch 

ervailing  torrent  of  the  man's  love. ---What  could  she 

i     oist  ?      'I'll- epitlet  has  no  meaning  in  such 

I  '    shrieked   the    hundred-voiced   instinct  of 

within    her,   and    alone   with    her    father,   alone    with 


BR.  MIDDLETON  :    CLARA  :    SIR  WILLOUGHBY.  409 

Willoughby,  she  could  have  invented  some  equivalent,  to  do 
her  heart  justice  for  the  injury  it  sustained  in  her  being 
unable  to  name  the  true  and  immense  objection  :  but  the 
pair  in  presence  paralyzed  her.  She  dramatized  them  each 
springing  forward  by  turns,  with  crushing  rejoinders.  The 
activity  of  her  mind  revelled  in  giving  them  a  tongue,  but 
would  not  do  it  for  herself.  Then  ensued  the  inevitable 
consequence  of  an  incapacity  to  speak  at  the  heart's  urgent 
dictate :  heart  and  mind  became  divided.  One  throbbed 
hotly,  the  other  hung*  aloof  ;  and  mentally,  while  the  sick 
inarticulate  heart  kept  clamouring,  she  answered  it  with  all 
that  she  imagined  for  those  two  men  to  say.  And  she  dropped 
poison  on  it  to  still  its  reproaches :  bidding  herself  remember 
her  fatal  postponements  in  order  to  preserve  the  seeming  of 
consistency  before  her  father ;  calling  it  hypocrite  ;  asking 
herself,  what  was  she  !  who  loved  her  !  And  thus  beating 
down  her  heart,  she  completed  the  mischief  with  a  piercing 
view  of  the  foundation  of  her  father's  advocacy  of  Wil- 
loughby,  and  more  lamentably  asked  herself  what  her  value 
was,  if  she  stood  bereft  of  respect  for  her  father.  Reason, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  animated  by  her  better  nature  to 
plead  his  case  against  her  :  she  clung  to  her  respect  for 
him,  and  felt  herself  drowning  with  it:  and  she  echoed 
Willoughby  consciously,  doubling  her  horror  with  the 
consciousness,  in  crying  out  on  a  world  where  the  most 
sacred  feelings  are  subject  to  such  lapses.  It  doubled  her 
horror,  that  she  should  echo  the  man ;  but  it  proved  that 
she  was  no  better  than  he  :  only  some  years  younger.  Those 
years  would  soon  be  outlived:  after  which,  he  and  she  would 
be  of  a  pattern.  She  was  unloved :  she  did  no  harm  to  any 
one  by  keeping  her  word  to  this  man  :  she  had  pledged  it, 
and  it  would  be  a  breach  of  faith  not  to  keep  it.  No  one 
loved  her.  Behold  the  quality  of  her  father's  love  !  To 
give  him  happiness  was  now  the  principal  aim  for  her, 
her  own  happiness  being  decently  buried  ;  and  here  he  was 
happy  :  Avhy  should  she  be  the  cause  of  his  going  and  losing 
the  poor  pleasure  he  so  much  enjoyed  ? 

The  idea  of  her  devotedness  nattered  her  feebleness.  She 
betrayed  signs  of  hesitation  ;  and  in  hesitating,  she  looked 
away  from  a  look  at  Willoug-hby,  thinking  (so  much  against 
her  nature  Avas  it  to  resign  herself  to  him)  that  it  would  not 
have  been  so  difficult  with  an  ill-favoured  man.     With  one 


■110  THE  EGOIST. 

lmn-il.lv  ugly,  it  would   have  been  a  horrible  exultation  to 

r  youth  and  take  the  fiendish  leap. 

I  i  ;  irtunately  for  Sir  Willoughby,  he  had  his  reasons  for 

g  impatience;  and  seeing  her  deliberate,  seeing  her 

iok  at  his  fine  figure,  his  opinion  of  himself  combined 

with  his  recollection  of  a  particular  maxim  of  the  Great 

!    to  assure  him   that   her  resistance  was  over:  chiefly 

:._.  as  he  supposed,  to  his  physical  perfections. 

I    equently  indeed,  in  the  c<  u test,  between  gentlemen  and 

ladies,  have  the  maxims  of  the  Book  stimulated  the  assailant 

to  victory.     Tin  \    are  rosy  with  blood  of  victims.     To  hear 

tin  mi  i-  to  hear  a  horn   that  blows  the  mort :  has  blown  it 

a  thousand  tunes.     It  is  good  to  remember  how  often  they 

i  icceeded,  when,  for  the  benefit  of  some  future  Lady 

Vauban,  who  may  bestir  her  wits  to  gather  maxims  for  the 

inspiriting  of  the  Defence,  the  circumstance  of  a  failure  has 

to  be  r nled. 

Willoughby  could  not  wait  for  the  melting  of  the  snows. 
He  Baw  full  surely  the  dissolving  process;  and  sincerely 
admiring  and  coveting  her  as  he  did,  rashly  this  ill-fated 
bleman  attempted  to  precipitate  it,  and  so  doing  arrested. 
Whence  might  we  draw  a  note  upon  vonder  maxim,  in 
words  akin  to  these:  Make  certain  ere  a  breath  come  from 
thee  that  thou  be  not  a  frost. 

••.Mine!  She  is  mine!"  he  cried:  "mine  once  more! 
mine  utterly !  mine  eternally!"  and  he  followed  up  his 
devouring  exclamations  in  person  as  she,  less  decidedly, 
retreated.  She  retreated,  as  young  ladies  should  ever  do, 
two  or  three  steps,  and  he  would  not  notice  that  she  had 
I  ime  an  angry  Dian,  all  arrows:  her  maidenliness  in 
surrendering  pleased  him.  Grasping  one  fair  hand,  he  just 
allowed  her  to  edge  away  from  his  embrace,  crying:  "Not 
[able  of  what  I  have  gone  through !  You  shall  not  have 
to  explain  it,  my  Clara  I  will  study  you  more  diligently, 
to  be  guided  by  you,  my  darling.  If  I  offend  again,  my 
will  not  find  it  hard  to  speak  what  my  bride  withheld 
— I  do  not  ask  why  :  perhaps  not  able  to  weigh  the  effect 
of  her  reticence:  not  at  that  time,  when  she  was  younger 
and  perienced,  estimating  the  sacredness  of  a  plighted 

«  "'■     It  is  past,  we  are  one,  my  dear  sir  and  father. 

may   leave  US  now." 


DR.  MIDDLETON  :    CLARA:    SIR  WILLOUGHBY.  41 1 

"I  profoundly  rejoice  to  hear  that  I  may,"  said  Dr. 
Middleton. 

Clara  writhed  her  captured  hand. 

"  No,  papa,  stay.  It  is  an  error,  an  error.  You  must  not 
leave  me.  Do  not  think  me  utterly,  eternally,  belonging  to 
any  one  but  you.     No  one  shall  say  I  am  his  but  you." 

"  Are  you  quicksands,  Clara  Middleton,  that  nothing  can 
be  built  on  you  ?  Whither  is  a  flighty  head  and  a  shifty 
will  carrying  the  girl  P" 

"  Clara  and  I,  sir,"  said  Willoughby. 

"  And  so  you  shall,"  said  the  doctor,  turning  about. 

"  Not  yet,  papa  :"  Clara  sprang  to  him. 

"  Why,  you,  you,  you,  it  was  you  who  craved  to  be  alone 
■with  Willoughby!"  her  father  shouted;  "and  here  we  are 
rounded  to  our  starting-point,  with  the  solitary  difference 
that  now  you  do  not  want  to  be  alone  with  Willoughby. 
First  I  am  bidden  go  ;  next  I  am  pulled  back  ;  and  judging 
by  collar  and  coat-tail,  I  suspect  you  to  be  a  young  woman 
to  wear  an  angel's  temper  threadbare  before  you  determine 
upon  which  one  of  the  tides  driving  him  to  and  fro  you 
intend  to  launch  on  yourself.     Where  is  your  mind  ?" 

Clara  smoothed  her  forehead. 

"  I  wish  to  please  you,  papa." 

"  I  request  you  to  please  the  gentleman  who  is  your  ap- 
pointed husband." 

"  I  am  anxious  to  perform  my  duty." 

"  That  should  be  a  satisfactory  basis  for  you,  Willoughby; 
— as  girls  go  !" 

"  Let  me,  sir,  simply  entreat  to  have  her  hand  in  mine 
before  you." 

•'  Why  not,  Clara  ?" 

"  Why  an  empty  ceremony,  papa  ?" 

"  The  implication  is,  that  she-is  prepared  for  the  important 
one,  friend  Willoughby." 

"  Her  hand,  sir ;  the  reassurance  of  her  hand  in  mine 
under  your  eyes : — after  all  that  I  have  suffered,  I  claim  it, 
I  think  I  claim  it  reasonably,  to  restore  me  to  confidence." 

"  Quite  reasonably ;  which  is  not  to  say,  necessarily  ;  but, 
I  will  add,  justifiably;  and  it  may  be,  sagaciously,  when 
dealing  with  the  volatile." 

"  And  here,"  said  Willoughby,  "  is  my  hand." 

Clara  recoiled. 


412  Tin:  EGOIST. 

Be  stepped  on.     Her  father  Erowned.     She  lifted  both  her 

rom  thta  shrinking  elbows,  darted  a  look  of  repnlsion 

.  and  ran  to  her  father,  crying:  "Call  it  my 

I  am  volatile,  capricious,  flighty,  very  foolish.     But 

thai  I  attach  a  real  meaning  to  it,  and.  feel  it  to  be 

I  _     I  cannot  think  it  an  empty  ceremony, if  it  is  before 

mly  be  a   little  considerate  to  your  moody  girl. 

will  be  in  a  fil  in  a   few  hours.     Spare  me  this 

•::   I    musl    colled    myself.     I   thought  I  was  free;  I 

though!  be  would  noi  press  me.     If  I  give  my  hand  hurriedly 

.  I   shall.  I   know,  immediately  repent  it.     There  is  the 

picture  of  But,  papa.  I    mean  to  try  to  be  above  that, 

and       I        and  walk  by  myself,  I  shall  grow  calm  to  perceive 

where  my  duty  lies  .  .  .  . 

"  In  which  direction  shall  you  walk?"  said  Willoughby. 

lorn  is  doI    upon  a  particular  road,"  said  Dr.  Mid- 
dle ton. 

I.  sir,  of  that  one  which  leads  to  the  rail- 
•i." 

•  With    some   justice!"    Dr.    Middlcton   sighed  over  his 

er. 
Clara  coloured  to  deep  crimson:  but  she  was  beyond  an eer, 
and  I   by  an  offence  coming  from  Wil- 

/hby. 

"  I  will  promise  not  to  leave  his  grounds,  papa." 
'  My  child,  you  have  threatened  to  be  a  breaker  of  pro- 
■ 

••  i  di  !"  she  wailed.     "  But  I  will  make  it  a  vow  to  you." 

•  Why    not    make  it  a   vow   to  me  this  moment,  for  this 

3  contentment,   that    he  shall    be   your    husband 
\\  it  bin  a  given  period  !" 

i"  yon  voluntarily.      I  burn  to  be  alone." 
I     hall   lose    her!"    exclaimed    Willoughby  in  heartfelt 
■ 

•  How  90  P"  said  Dr.  Middleton.  "I  have  her,  sir,  if  you 
will  me  by  continuing  in  abeyance. — You  will  come 
within  an   hoar  voluntarily,  Clara  :  and   you   will   either  at 

yield   your  hand    to   him,  or  yon   will  furnish  reasons, 
and  they  must  he  good  ones,  for  withholding  it." 
••  V 

••  You  win  r 

■■  I   will  " 


DE.  M1DDLET0N  :    CLARA  :    SIR  WILLOUGI1JBY.  413 

11  Mind,  I  say  reasons." 

"Reasons,  papa.     If  I  have  none  .  .  .  ." 

"  If  you  have  none  that  are  to  my  satisfaction,  you  im. 
plieitly,  and  instantly,  and  cordially  obey  my  command." 

"  I  will  obey." 

"  What  more  would  you  require  ?"  Dr.  ]\liddleton  bowed 
to  Sir  Willoughby  in  triumph. 

"Will  she 

"Sir!  Sir!" 

"  She  is  vour  daughter,  sir.    I  am  satisfied." 

"  She  has  perchance  wrestled  with  her  engagement,  as  the 
aboriginals  of  a  land  newly  discovered  by  a  crew  of  adventu- 
rous colonists  do  battle  with  the  garments  imposed  on  them 
by  our  considerate  civilization ; — ultimately  to  rejoice  with 
excessive  dignity  in  the  wearing  of  a  battered  cocked-hat 
and  trowsers  not  extending  to  the  shanks  :  but  she  did  not 
break  her  engagement,  sir;  and  we  will  anticipate  that, 
moderating  a  young  woman's  native  wildness,  she  may,  after 
the  manner  of  my  comparison,  take  a  similar  pride  in  her 
fortune  in  good  season." 

Willoughby  had  not  leisure  to  sound  the  depth  of  Dr.  Mid- 
leton's  compliment.  He  had  seen  Clara  gliding  out  of  the 
room  during  the  delivery  ;  and  his  fear  returned  on  him  that, 
not  being  won,  she  was  lost. 

"She  has  gone;"  her  father  noticed  her  absence.  "She 
does  not  waste  time  in  the  mission  to  procure  that  astonish- 
ing product  of  a  shallow  soil,  her  reasons ;  if  such  be  the 
object  of  her  search.  But  no:  it  signifies  that  she  deems 
herself  to  have  need  of  composure — nothing  more.  No  one 
likes  to  be  turned  aboiit ;  we  like  to  turn  ourselves  about : 
and  in  the  question  of  an  act  to  be  committed,  we  stipulate 
that  it  shall  be  our  act — girls  and  others.  After  the  lapse  of 
an  hour,  it  will  appear  to  her  as  her  act. — Happily,  Wil- 
loughby, we  do  not  dine  away  from  Patterne  to-night." 

"No,  sir." 

"  It  may  be  attributable  to  a  sense  of  deserving,  but  I 
could  plead  guilty  to  a  weakness  for  old  Port  to-day." 

"  There  shall  be  an  extra-bottle,  sir." 

"  All  going  favourably  with  you,  as  I  have  no  cause  to 
doubt,"  said  Dr.  Middleton,  with  the  motion  of  wafting  hia 
host  out  of  the  library. 


[  Tin:  EGOIST. 

CHAPTEB  XLII. 

§B0ws  Tin:  mmnim;  aims  of  a  pebcepttve  MINT). 

St'  from   the   Hall,  a  few  minutes  before  Dr.  Mid- 

:i,l   Sir  Willoughby  had  entered   tin-  drawing-room 
night,  Vernon  par-ted  company  with  Colonel  De  Craye  at 
the  park-gates,  and  betook  himself  to  the  cottage  of  the  hales, 
where   i >. 1 1 1 1 i 1 1 lt   had    been   beard  of    bis   wanderer;    and  he 
:        red  the  Mime  disappointing  reply  from  Dr.  Corney,  out 
oi  the  bed-room  window  of  t  be  genial  physician,  -whose  asto- 
nishment  at    his  covering  so  long  a  stretch  of  road  at  night 
a  boy  like  Crossjay     gifted  with  the  lives  of  a 
became    violent   and    ra]>]>ed    Punch-like   blows   on   the 
window-sill   at    Vernon's  refusal   to  take   shelter  and  rest. 
non's  excuse  was  thai  be  had  'no  one  hut  that  fellow  to 
or,'  and  he  strode  off,  naming  a  farm  five  miles  distant. 
Dr    Uorney  howled  an  invitation  to  early  breakfast  to  him, 
lie  event  of  his  passing  on  his  way  back,  and  retired  to 
to  think  of  him.      The  result  of   a  variety  of  conjectures 
can  Bed  bim  to  set  Vernon  down  as   Miss  Middleton's  knight, 
and  he  felt  a  strong  compassion  for  his  poor  friend.    '  Though,' 
thought  he,  'a  hopeless  attachment  is  as  pretty  an  accom- 
panimenl  to  the  tune  of  life  as  a  gentleman  might  wish  to 
have,  for  il  of  those  big   doses  of   discord  which  make 

all  the  minor  ones  fit  in  like  an  agreeable  harmony,  and  so 
along  as  pleasantly  as  the  fortune-favoured,  when 
they  come  to  compute  !" 

Sir   Willoughby   was  the   fortune-favoured   in    the    little 

tor's  mind;  that  high-stepping  gentleman  having  wealth, 

sideration,  and  the  most  ravishing  young  lady 

in  the  world  for  a  bride.     Still,  though  he  reckoned  all  these 

advantages   enjoyed   by  Sir  Willoughby  at  their  full  value, 

ild  imagine  the  ultimate  balance  of  good  fortune  to  be 

in  favour  of  Vernon.     Bui   to  do  so.  he  had  to  reduce  the, 

whole  calculation  to  the  extreme  abstract,  and  feed  his  lean 

friend,  as  it  were,  on  dew  and  root-:  and  the  happy  effect 

lay  in  a  distant  future,  on  the  borders  of  old  age, 

re  he  was  to  be  blesl  with  his  lady's  regretful  preference, 

and  rejoice  in  the  fruits  of  good  constitutional  habits.     The 

i  wa     Irish.     Sir  Willoughby  was  a  character 

of    man    profoundly   opposed   to    Dr.    Corney's    nature;     the 


A  PERCEPTIVE  MIND.  415 

Tatter's  instincts  bristled  with  antagonism — not  to  his  race, 
for  Vernon  was  of  the  same  race,  partly  of  the  same  blood, 
and  Corney  loved  him  :  the  type  of  person  was  the  annoy- 
ance. And  the  circumstance  of  its  prevailing  successl'ulness 
in  the  country  where  he  was  placed,  while  it  held  him  silent 
as  if  under  a  law,  heaped  stores  of  insurgency  in  the  Celtic 
bosom.  Corney  contemplating  Sir  Willoughby,  and  a  trotting 
kern  governed  by  Strongbow,  have  a  point  of  likeness  between 
them ;  with  the  point  of  difference,  that  Corney  was  enlight- 
ened to  know  of  a  friend  better  adapted  for  eminent  station, 
and  especially  better  adapted  to  please  a  lovely  lady — could 
these  high-bred  Englishwomen  but  be  taught  to  conceive 
another  idea  of  manliness  than  the  formal  carved-in-wood 
idol  of  their  national  worship  ! 

Dr.  Corney  breakfasted  very  early,  without  seeing  Vernon. 
He  was  off  to  a  patient  while  the  first  lark  of  the  morning 
carolled  above,  and  the  business  of  the  day  not  yet  fallen 
upon  men  in  the  shape  of  cloud,  was  happily  intermixed 
with  nature's  hues  and  pipings.  Turning  off  the  highroad 
up  a  green  lane,  an  hour  later,  he  beheld  a  youngster  prying 
into  a  hedge  head  and  arms,  by  the  peculiar  strenuous  twist 
of  whose  hinder  parts,  indicative  of  a  frame  plunged  on  the 
pursuit  in  hand,  he  clearly  distinguished  young  Crossjay. 
Out  came  eggs.     The  doctor  pulled  up. 

"  What  bird  ?"  he  bellowed. 

"  Yellowhammer,"  Crossjay  yelled  back. 

•'Now,  sir,  you'll  drop  a  couple  of  those  eggs  in  the  nest." 

'•  Don't  order  me,"  Crossjay  was  retorting  :  '•  Oh  !  it's  you, 
Dr.  Corney.  Good  morning.  I  said  that,  because  I  always 
do  drop  a  couple  back.  I  promised  Mr.  Whitford  I  would, 
and  Miss  Middleton  too." 

"  Had  breakfast  ?" 

"  Not  vet." 

"  Not  hungry  ?" 

"  I  should  be  if  I  thought  about  it." 

"  Jump  up." 

"I  think  I'd  rather  not   Dr.  Corney." 

"  And  you'll  just  do  what  Dr.  Corney  tells  you  ;  and  set 
your  mind  on  rashers  of  curly  fat  bacon  and  sweetly-smoking 
coffee,  toast,  hot  cakes,  marmalade  and  damson-jam.  Wide 
go  the  fellow's  nostrils,  and  there's  water  at  the  dimples  of 
his  mouth  !     Up,  my  man." 


4  1  i)  Hi  T. 

Cro88J ay  jumped   ap  beside  the  doctor,  who  remarked,  as 
he  touched   his  horse:  "]  don't  wanl   a  man  this   morning, 
though  I'll  enlist  vmi  in  my  service  if  I  do.     You're  fond  of 
Middletonr"' 

h    tead  of  answering,  Crossjay  heaved  the  sigh  of  love 
bi  ars  a  bur  len. 

\ik1  so  am  I."  pursued  the  doctor-  "Ton '11  have  to  put 
up  with  a  rival.  It's  worse  than  fond:  I'm  in  love  with 
her.     1  tow  do  you  like  that  ?" 

•■  I  don'1  mind  how  many  love  her,"  said  Crossjay. 

"You're  worthy  of  a  gratuitous  breakfast  in  the  front 
parlour  of  the  besi  hotel  of  the  place  they  call  Arcadia. 
And  how  about  vour  bed  last  night  ?" 

"  Pretty  middling." 

"  Hani,  was  it,  where  the  bones  haven't  cushion  ?" 

l>  I    don't    care  for  bed.      A  couple  of  hours,  and   that's 
ngh  for  me." 

"  But  you're  fond  of  Miss  Middleton  anyhow,  and  that's  a 
virl 

To  his  great   surprise,  Dr.  Corney  beheld  two  big  round 
-  force  their  way  out  of  this  tough  youngster's  eyes,  and 
all  the  while  the  boy's  Eace  was  proud. 

Cr<  said,  when  he  could  trust  himself  to  disjoin  his 

lips:  "  1  want  to  see  Mr.  Whitford." 

■•  I  lave  \  on  goi  oews  for  him  ?" 

"I've  something  to    ask  him.     It's  about  what  I    ought 
.." 

•Thru,  my  boy,  you  have  the  right  name  addressed  in 

the  wrong  direction  :  for  I  found  you  turning  your  shoulders 

on  Mr.  Whitford.     And  he  has  been  out  of  his  bed,  hunting 

all   the  unholy  eight    you've  made  it  for  him.     That's 

melancholy.     What  do  you  say  to  asking  my  advice?" 

Crossjay  sighed.  "I  can't  speak  to  anybody  but  Mr. 
Whitford." 

"  And  you're  hot  to  speak  to  him  ?" 

u  I  want  to." 

"  And    I    found  you  runn  ay  from  him.     You're  a 

c  y.  Mr.  ( !roj     •     Patti    ne." 

"  Ah  !  Bo'd  an;,  body  be  who  knew  as  much  as  I  do,"  said 
I  y,  with  a  sober  sadness  that  caused  the  doctor  to  treat 

hi:  I8ly." 

'The    fad    is,"  he  said,  "Mi-.   Whitford   is   beating   the 


A  PERCEPTIVE  MIND.  417 

country  for  you.     My  best  plan  will  be  to  drive   you  to  tLe 
Hall." 

"  I'd  rather  not  go  to  the  Hall,"  Crossjay  spoke  reso- 
lutely. 

"You  won't  see  Miss  Middleton  anywhere  but  at  the 
Hall." 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  Miss  Middleton,  if  I  can't  be  a  bit  of 
nse  to  her." 

"  No  danger  threatening  the  lady,  is  there  ?" 

Crossjay  treated  the  question  as  if  it  had  not  been  put. 

"  Now,  tell  me,"  said  Dr  Corney,  "  would  there  be  a 
chance  for  me,  supposing  Miss  Middleton  were  disen- 
gaged ?" 

The  answer  was  easy.     *'  I'm  sure  she  wouldn't." 

"  And  why,  sir,  are  you  so  cock  sure  ?" 

There  was  no  saying ;  but  the  doctor  pressed  for  it,  and  at 
last  Crossjay  gave  his  opinion  that  she  would  take  Mr. 
Whitford. 

The  doctor  asked  why;  and  Crossjay  said  it  was  because 
Mr.  Whitford  was  the  best  man  in  the  world.  To  which, 
with  a  lusty  "  Amen  to  that,"  Dr.  Corney  remarked :  "  I 
should  have  fancied  Colonel  De  Craye  would  have  had  the 
first  chance :  he's  more  of  a  lady's  man." 

Crossjay  surprised  him  again  by  petulantly  saying : 
"Don't," 

The  boy  added:  "I  don't  want  to  talk,  except  about 
birds  and  things.  What  a  jolly  morning  it  is!  I  saw  the 
sun  rise.  No  rain  to-day.  You're  right  about  hungry,  Dr. 
Corney !" 

The  kindly  little  man  swung  his  whip.  Crossjay  informed 
him  of  his  disgrace  at  the  Hall,  and  of  every  incident  con- 
nected with  it,  from  the  tramp  to  the  baronet,  save  Miss 
Middleton's  adventure,  and  the  night-scene  in  the  drawing- 
room.  A  strong  smell  of  something-  left  out  struck  Dr. 
Corney,  and  he  said :  "  You'll  not  let  Miss  Middleton  know 
of  my  affection.  After  all,  it's  only  a  little  bit  of  love.  But, 
as  Patrick  said  to  Kathleen,  when  she  owned  to  such  a  little 
bit,  '  that's  the  best  bit  of  all !'  and  he  was  as  right  as  I  am 
about  hungry." 

Crossjay  scorned  to  talk  of  loving,  he  declared.  "  I  never 
tell  Miss  Middleton  what  I  feel.  Why,  there's  Miss  Dale's 
cottage!" 

2  E 


418  Tin   booist. 

■■  I-  er  to  your  empty  inside  than  my  mansion,"  said 

■  an  1  we'll  Btop  just  to  inquire  whether  a  bed's 
i  1  for  you  there  to-night,  and  if  not,  I'll  have  you 
with  ra<  .  and  bottle  you  and  exhibit  you,  for  you're  a  rare 
n.      Breakfast,  you  may  count  ou,  from  Mr.  Dale.     I 
leman." 
"••I;  B  Colonel  De  Crave." 
•  i  Jome  after  aews  of  you." 
"  1  wond 
••''     ,  Middleton  sends  him;  of  course  she  does." 

ssjay  turned  bis  full  face  to  the  doctor.     "I  haven't 

•i  ber  for  such  a  long  time!     But  he  saw  me  last  night, 

i   he  might  have  I  >ld   ber  that,  if  she's  anxious. — Good 

morning,  colonel.       I've    had    a   good    walk   and    a   capital 

drive,    and   I'm   as  hungry  as  the  boat's  crew  of  Captain 

He  j limped  down. 

The  colonel  and  t  lie  doctor  saluted  smiling. 
"  L've  run--  the  bell,"  said  De  Crave. 

A  maid  came  to  the  gate,  and  upon  her  steps  appeared 
Mi--  I  talc,  who  flung  herself  at  Crossjay,  mingling  kisses 
and  reproaches.  She  scarcely  raised  her  face  to  the  colonel 
more  than  to  reply  to  his  greeting,  and  excuse  the  hungry 
boy  for  hurrying  indoors  t<>  breakfast. 

"  I'll  wait,"  said   De  Craye.     He  had  seen  that  she  was 
paler    than    usual.      So    bad    Dr.   Corney  ;    and   the    doctor 
I  to  her  concerning  her  father's   health.      She  reported 
that  he  had  nut  yet  pis  in,  and  took  Crossjay  to  herself. 

'■  That's  well,"  said  the  doctor,  "if  the  invalid  sleeps  long. 
'1        lady  is  not  looking  so  well,  though.     But  ladies  vary; 
show  the  mind    on  the   countenance,  for  want  of   the 
pouching  we  meet  with  to  conceal  it;  they're  like  military 
:•  a  funeral  or  a  ^ala  ;  one   day   furled,  and  next  day 
iming.     Men  are  ships'  figure-heads,  about  the  same  for 
irm   or  a  calm,  and  not  too   handsome,  thanks  to  the 
n.     It-  e  since  we  encountered   last,  colonel:  on 

:d  the  Dublin  boat,  1  recollect,  and  a  night  it  was  !" 
"  I  n  collect  tb  me  on  my  legs,  doctor." 

"  Ah,  and  you'll  please  to  notify  that   Corney's  no  quack 
at  sea.   by   favour   of    the   monks   of  the   Chartreuse,    whoso 
power   to   still   the   waves.      And  we  hear   that 
miracles  are  done  with  !" 


A.  PERCEPTIVE  MIND.  41 1) 

"  Roll  a  physician  and  a  monk  together,  doctor !" 

"True:  it'll  be  a  miracle  if  they  combine.  Though  the 
cure  of  the  soul  is  often  the  entire  and  total  cure  of  the 
body  :  and  it's  maliciously  said,  that  the  body  given  over  to 
our  treatment  is  a  signal  to  set  the  soul  flying.  By  the 
"way,  colonel,  that  boy  has  a  trifle  on  his  mind." 

"  I  suppose  he  has  been  worrying  a  fanner  or  a  game- 
keeper." 

"  Try  him.  You'll  find  him  tight.  He's  got  Miss  Mid- 
dleton  on  the  brain.  There's  a  bit  of  a  secret ;  and  he's  not 
so  cheerful  about  it." 

"  We'll  see,"  said  the  colonel. 

Dr.  Corney  nodded.  "  I  have  to  visit  my  patient  here 
presently.  I'm  too  early  for  him  :  so  I'll  make  a  call  or  two 
on  the  lame  birds  that  are  up,"  he  remarked,  and  drove 
away. 

De  Craye  strolled  through  the  garden.  He  was  a  gentleman 
of  those  actively  perceptive  wits  which,  if  ever  they  reflect, 
do  so  by  hops  and  jumps  :  upon  some  dancing  mirror  within, 
we  may  fancy.  He  penetrated  a  plot  in  a  flash  ;  and  in  a 
flash  he  formed  one  ;  but  in  both  cases,  it  was  after  long 
hovering  and  not  over-eager  deliberation,  by  the  patient 
exercise  of  his  quick  perceptives.  The  fact  that  Crossjay 
was  considered  to  have  Miss  Middleton  on  the  brain,  threw  a 
series  of  images  of  everything  relating  to  Crossjay  for  the 
last  forty  hours  into  relief  before  him:  and  as  he  did  not  in 
the  slightest  degree  speculate  on  anyone  of  them,  but  merely 
shifted  and  surveyed  them,  the  falcon  that  he  was  in  spirit 
as  well  as  in  bis  handsome  face  leisurely  allowed  his  instinct 
to  direct  him  where  to  strike.  A  reflective  disposition  has 
this  danger  in  action,  that  it  commonly  precipitates  con- 
jecture for  the  purpose  of  working  upon  probabilities  with  the 
methods  and  in  the  tracks  to  which  it  is  accustomed :  and  to 
conjecture  rashly  is  to  play  into  the  puzzles  of  the  maze.  He 
who  can  watch  circling  above  it  awhile,  quietly  viewing,  and 
collecting  in  his  eye,  gathers  matter  that  makes  the  secret 
thing  discourse  to  the  brain  by  weight  and  balance  ;  he  will 
get  either  the  right  clue  or  none  ;  more  frequently  none ; 
but  he  will  escape  the  entanglement  of  his  own  cleverness,  he 
will  always  be  nearer  to  the  enigma  than  the  guesser  or  the 
calculator,  and  he  will  retain  a  breadth  of  vision  forfeited  by 

2  e2 


. 

i  .,..,.  ()f  success,  be 

!y    perce  itive,   a   reader  of    features, 
u  er  mom 

D  look      M       Dale.     She  had  return*  I 

1  not,  as  it  appeared,  owing  to  her  fat  tier's 

remembered  a  redness  of  ber  eyelids  when 

on  the  corridor  one  t i i -_r  1 « t .     She  sent  Cross j ay 

ion  as  the  boy  was  well  filled.    He  sent  Cn 

th  a  request.     She  did  not  yield  to  it  immediately. 

i  to  the  from1  door  reluctantly,  and  seemed  discon" 

I  •  d  f or  a  mes  Miss  M  iddleton. 

ae  to  give.     He  persisted.    But  there  was  really 

!  • .  Bhe  said. 

trusl  me  with  the  smallest  word  ?"  said  he, 
ber  visibly  thinking  whether  sin;  could  despatch  a 
raid  tint  -,  she  had  no  heart  for  messages. 
"  1  b!  all  see  her  in  a  day  or  two,  Colonel  De  Cray©.'1 
"  She  will  miss  you  severely." 
"  We  shall  Boon  meel 
"And  poor  Willoughby!" 
Li  doured  and  -tood  silent. 

A  me  rarity  allured  Crossjay. 

'  I  fear  he  has  been  doing  mischief,"  she  said.     "I  cannot 
•  me." 
ppet  ite  i<  good  ?" 
"  \  i  1  indeed." 

'  '■   (  !  '.  e  ta.il.lrd.     A  boy  with  a  noble  appetite  is/ never  a 
-  lock. 

■  '  :"''l  C  ■  red  over  the  garden. 

•lonel,  "  we'll  see  if  we  can't  arrange 
ug  between  you  and  Miss  Middleton.     You're  a  lucky 
thinking  of  von." 
"I  kii  • '■   I  >'  alwa    -  thinking  of  her,"  said  Crossjay. 

ape,   she's   the  person  you  must 

'■  res,  if  I  know  where  she  i 

"  Wh  pally  she'll  be  al  the  Hall." 

oreply:Ci  idful  secret  jumped  to 

li'  ''  ■  lock  for  beingfull  of 

I  Mr.  Whitford  so  much,"  he  said. 

'   -   •  ethine  to  tell  him  ':" 


A  PERCEPTIVE  MIND.  421 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do  :  I  don't  understand  it!'-'  The 
Becret  wriggled  to  his  mouth.  He  swallowed  it  down :  "  Yes, 
I  want  to  talk  to  Mr.  Whitford." 

"  He's  another  of  Miss  Middleton's  friends." 

"I  know  he  is.     He's  true  steel." 

"  "We're  all  her  friends,  Crossjay.  I  flatter  myself  I'm  a 
Toledo  when  I'm  wanted.  How  long  had  you  been  in  the 
house  last  night  before  you  ran  into  me." 

"  I  don't  know,  sir :  I  fell  asleep  for  some  time,  and  then 
I  woke!  .  .  .  ." 

"  Where  did  you  find  yotirself  ?" 

"  I  was  in  the  drawing-room." 

"  Come,  Crossjay,  you're  not  a  fellow  to  be  scared  by 
ghosts  ?  You  looked  it  when  you  made  a  dash  at  my 
midriff." 

"  I  don't  believe  there  are  such  things.  Do  you,  colonel  ? 
You  can't !" 

"  There's  no  saying.  We'll  hope  not ;  for  it  wouldn't  be 
fair  fighting.  A  man  with  a  ghost  to  back  him  'd  beat  any 
ten.  We  couldn't  box  him,  or  play  cards,  or  stand  a  chance 
with  him  as  a  rival  in  love.  Did  you,  now,  catch  a  sight  of 
a  ghost  ?" 

"  They  weren't  ghosts !"  Crossjay  said  what  he  was  sure 
of,  and  his  voice  pronounced  his  conviction. 

"  I  doubt  whether  Miss  Middleton  is  particularly  happy," 
remarked  the  colonel.  "  Why  ?  Why,  you  upset  her,  you 
know,  now  and  then." 

The  boy  swelled.  "  I'd  do  ....  I'd  go  ....  I  wouldn't 
have  her  unhappy  ....  It's  that !  that's  it!  And  I  don't 
know  what  I  ought  to  do.  I  wish  I  could  see  Mr.  Whit- 
ford." 

"You  get  into  such  headlong  scrapes,  my  lad." 

"  I  wasn't  in  any  scrape  yesterday." 

"  So  you  made  yourself  up  a  comfortable  bed  in  tha 
irawingr.room  ?     Lucky  Sir  Willoughby  didn't  see  you." 

"  He^didn't,  though  !" 

"  A  close  shave,  was  it  ?" 

"  I  was  under  a  cover  of  something  silk.'f 

"  He  woke  you  ?" 

"I  suppose  he  did.     I  heard  him." 

"Talking?" 

"  lie  was  talking." 


THi:  EGOIST. 

"What!  talking  to  himself  ?" 

The  secret  threatened  Crossjay  to  be  out  or  suffocate 
him. 

I  »■   i  Y:i\  e  gave  him  a  respite. 

"You  like  Sir  Willoughby,  don't  you?" 

I  -v  produced  a  still-born  affirmative. 

"  Be's  kind  to  you,"  said  the  colonel;  "he'll  set  you  up 
ami  loi  k  after  3  our  interests." 

"Yes,    1    like    him,"   said    Crossjay,    with   his    customary 

rapidity   in   touching   Hie   subject;   "I   like  him;   he's  kind, 

ami  all  that,  ami  tips  and  plays  with  you,  and  all  that;  but 

per  can  make  out  why  lie  wouldn't  see  my  father  when 

my  lather  came  here  to  sec  him  ten  miles,  and  had  to  walk 

>ack  ten  miles  in  the  rain,  to  go  by  rail  a  long  way,  down 

Dome,  as  far  as  Devonport,  because  Sir  Willoughby  wouldn't 

him,  though  he  was  at   home,  my  father  saw.     "We  all 

though!  it  so  odd  :  and  my  father  wouldn't  let  us  talk  much 

about  it.     My  father's  a  very  brave  man." 

■  '  laptain  Patterne  is  as  brave  a  man  as  ever  lived,"  said 
1 ),  •  1 

"  I'm  positive  you'd  like  him,  colonel." 
"  I  know  of  his  deeds,  and  I  admire  him,  andjthat's  a  good 
step  to  liking." 

II  ■  warmed  the  boy's  thoughts  of  his  father. 

■  Because,  what  they  say  at  home  is,  a  little  bread  and 
cheese,  and  a  '_rla-s  of  ale,  and  a  rest,  to  a  poor  man — lots  of 
great  h  ill  give  yon  that,  and  we  wouldn't  have  asked 

for    more   than    that.      My    sisters    say   they  think   Sir  Wll- 

.  hhy  must  be  selfish.  He's  awfully  proud;  and  perhaps 
it  was  because  my  fat  her  wasn't  dressed  well  enough.  But 
whal  can  we  do?  We're  very  poor  at  home,  and  lots  of  us, 
and  all  hungry.  My  father  says  he  isn't  paid  xcry  well  fur 
1.  » the  Government,     lie's  only  a  marine." 

"'  He's  a  hero!"  said  De  Craye. 
He  came  home  very  tired,  with  a  cold,  and  had  a  doctor. 
I '•  Sir  Willoughby  did  send  him  money,  and.  mother  wished 
1  end  it  back,  and  my  father  said  she  was  not  like  a  woman 
— with  our  big  family,  lie  said  lie  thought  Sir  Willoughby 
an  exl  raordinary  man." 

'■  Not  at  all;   very  common;  indigenous,"  said  De  Crave. 
The  art  of   cutting,    ia   one   of    the  branches  of  a  polito 


A  PERCEPTIVE  MIND.  423 

education  in  this  country,  and  you'll  have  to  learn  it,  if  you 
expect  to  be  looked  on  as  a  gentleman  and  a  Patterne,  my 
boy  I  begin  to  see  how  it  is  Miss  Middleton  takes  to  you 
so.  Follow  her  directions.  But  I  hope  you  did  not  listen 
to  a  private  conversation.  Miss  Middleton  would  not  approve 
of  that." 

"  Colonel  De  Craye,  how  could  I  help  myself  ?  I  heard 
a  lot  before  I  knew  what  it  was.     There  was  poetry !" 

"  Still,  Cross  jay,  if  it  was  important ! — was  it  ?" 

The  boy  swelled  again,  and  the  colonel  asked  him :  "  Does 
Miss  Dale  know  of  your  having  played  listener  ?" 

"  She !"  said  Crossjay.     "  Oh  !  1  couldn't  tell  Tier." 

He  breathed  thick  :  then  came  a  threat  of  tears.  "  She 
wouldn't  do  anything  to  hurt  Miss  Middleton.  I'm  sure  of 
that.  It  wasn't  her  fault.  She — there  goes  Mr.  Whit- 
ford  !"     Crossjay  bounded  away. 

The  colonel  had  no  inclination  to  wait  for  his  return.  He 
walked  fast  up  the  road,  not  perspicuously  conscious  that 
his  motive  was  to  be  well  in  advance  of  Vernon  Whit  ford : 
to  whom  after  all,  the  knowledge  imparted  by  Crossjay 
would  be  of  small  advantage.  That  fellow  would  probably 
trot  off  to  Willoughby  to  row  him  for  breaking  his  word  to 
Miss  Middleton !  There  are  men,  thought  De  Craye,  who 
see  nothing,  feel  nothing. 

He  crossed  a  stile  into  the  wood  above  the  lake,  where,  as 
he  was  in  the  humour  to  think  himself  signally  lucky, 
espying  her,  he  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  the  lady 
who  taught  his  heart  to  leap  should  be  posted  by  the  Fates. 
And  he  wondered  little  at  her  power,  for  rarely  had  the 
world  seen  such  union  of  princess  and  sylph  as  in  that  lady's 
figure.  She  stood  holding  by  a  beech-branch,  gazing  down 
on  the  water. 

She  had  not  heard  him.  When  she  looked  she  flushed  at 
the  spectacle  of  one  of  her  thousand  thoughts,  but  she  was 
not  startled  ;  the  colour  overflowed  a  grave  face. 

"And  'tis  not  quite  the  first  time  that  Willoughby  has 
played  this  trick  !"  De  Craye  said  to  her,  keenly  smiling 
with  a  parted  mouth. 

Clara  moved  her  lips  to  recall  remarks  introductory  to  so 
abrupt  and  strange  a  plunge. 

He  smiled  in  that  peculiar  manner  of  an  illuminated 
comic  perception :  for  the  moment  he  was  all  falcon ;  and 


-Ul  THE  EGOIST. 

1  himself  more  than  Clara,  who  was  not  in  the 
1  to  take  surprises.     It  was  the  Bight  of  her  which  haJ 
animated  him  t<>  strike  his  game ;  he  was  down  on  it. 

Another  instinct  at  work  (they  spring  up  in  twentiew 
(  iier  than  in  twos  when  the  heart  is  the  hunter)  prompted 
him  to  directness  and  quickness,  to  carry  her  on  the  Loud 
of  t  he  discovery. 

i   something  of  her  mental  self-possession  as 

was  on  a  level  with  a   meaning  she  had  not  yet 

ins;  but  she  had  to  submit  to  his  lead,  distinctly  per- 

«      ring  where   its    drift  divided  to  the  forked  currents  of 

what  might  l>e  in  his  mind  and  what  was  in  hers. 

'■  Miss  M  a,  1  bear  a  bit  of  a  likeness   to  the  mes- 

to  the  glorious  despoi  -  my  head  is  off  if  I  speak  not 

I      K  eryi  hing  1  have  is  on  the  die.     Did  I  guess  wrong 

your  wish  ? — I  read  it  in  the  dark,  by  the  heart.     JL»ut  here's 

a  certainty  :  Willoughby  sets  you  free." 

"You  have  come  from  him  ?"  she  could  imagine  nothing 
.    and    she    was    unable    to    preserve    a    disguise;    she 
i        '.!.  d. 

-  Prom  Miss  Dale." 

"  A  h  !"   ( 'lai  a  drooped  :  "  she  told  me  that  once." 
"'Tis  the  fact  that  tells  it  now." 
"  You  have  nut  son  him  since  you  left  the  house  ?" 
"Darkly:  cl<  a:  not  unlike  the  hand  of  destiny- 

through  a  veil.      Hi  I  himself  to  iliss  Dale  last  night, 

o  the  witching  hours  of  twelve  and  one." 

-  Mi  3  Dale? 

"Would  she  other?  Could  she?  The  poor  lady  hag 
languished  beyond  a  decade.      She's  love  in  the  feminine 

1         '"•" 

M.n  Bpeaking  seriously,  Colonel  De  Crave?" 
"  Would  I  dare  to  trifle  with  you,  .Miss  Middleton?" 
'•  I  have  reason  to  know  it  cannot  be." 
'  It  I  have  a  head,  it  is  a  fresh  and  blooming  truth.     And 
i  I        dee  my  vanity  on  it  !" 

'■  I.'  t  me  go  to  her."     She  stepped. 
"  <  Jonsider,"  said  he. 

"Miss   Dale  and    1  are   excellent  friends.     It  would  not 

in  lelicate  to  her.     She   has  a  kind  of  regard  for  me, 

thro  _h   Crossjay. — Oh!  can  it  be?     There  must  be  soma 

delusion.     You  have  seen — you  wish  to  be  of  service  to  me; 


A  TERCEPTIVE  MIND.  425 

you  may  too  easily  be  deceived.  Last  night  ? — lie  last 
night  .   .   .   .   ?     And  this  morning  !" 

"  Tis  not  the  first  time  our  friend  has  played  the  trick, 
Miss  Middleton." 

"  But  this  is  incredible :  that  last  night  ....  and  this 
morning,  in  my  father's  presence,  he  presses  !  .  .  .  .  You 
have  seen  Miss  Dale  ? — Everything  is  possible  of  him  :  they 
were  together,  I  know.  Colonel  De  Craj~e,  I  have  not  the 
slightest  chance  of  concealment  with  you.  I  think  I  felt 
that  when  I  first  saw  you.  Will  you  let  me  hear  why  you 
are  so  certain  ?" 

"  Miss  Middleton,  when  I  first  hnd  the  honour  of  looking 
on  you,  it  was  in  a  posture  that  necessitated  my  looking  up, 
and  morally  so  it  has  been  since.  I  conceived  that  Willoughby 
had  won  the  greatest  prize  on  earth.  And  next  I  was  led  to 
the  conclusion  that  he  had  won  it  to  lose  it.  Whether  he 
much  cares,  is  the  mystery  I  haven't  leisure  to  fathom.  Him- 
self is  the  principal  consideration  with  himself,  and  ever  was." 

"  You  discovered  it !"  said  Clara. 

"  He  uncovered  it,"  said  De  Craye.  "  The  miracle  was, 
that  the  world  wouldn't  see.  But  the  world  is  a  piggy- 
wiggy  world  for  the  wealthy  fellow  who  fills  a  trough  for 
it,  and  that  he  has  always  very  sagaciously  done.  Only 
women  besides  myself  have  detected  him.  I  have  never 
exposed  him;  I  have  been  an  observer  pure  and  simple:  and 
because  I  apprehended  another  catastrophe — making  some- 
thing like  the  fourth,  to  my  knowledge,  one  being  public  .  . . ." 

"  You  knew  Miss  Durham  ?" 

"  And  Harry  Oxford  too.  And  they're  a  pair  as  happy  as 
blackbirds  in  a  cherry-tree,  in  a  summer  sunrise,  with  the 
owner  of  the  garden  asleep.  Because  of  that  apprehension 
of  mine,  I  refused  the  office  of  best  man  till  Willoughby  had 
sent  me  a  third  letter.  He  insisted  on  my  coming.  I  came, 
saw,  and  was  conquered.  I  trust  with  all  my  soul  I  did  not 
betray  myself.  I  owed  that  duty  to  my  position  of  concealing 
it.  As  for  entirely  hiding  that  I  had  used  my  eyes,  I  can't 
say  :  they  must  answer  for  it." 

The  colonel  was  using  his  eyes  with  an  increasing  suavity 
that  threatened  more  than  sweetness. 

"  I  believe  you  have  been  sincerely  kind,"  said  Clara. 
**  We  will  descend  to  the  path  round  the  lake." 

She  did  not  refuse  her  hand  on  the  descent,  and  he  let  it 


426  THE  EGOIST. 

the  moment  the  service  was  done.     As  he  was  per* 

y  the  admirable  character  of  the  man  of  honour,  he 

i  attend  to  the  observance  of  details ;  and  sure  of  her 

h   iic  was   beginning  to   feel,  there  was  a  touch  of  the 

i;  in  i  lara  Middleton  which  made  him  fear  to  stamp 

tnce;  despite  a  barely  resistible  impulse,  coming  of  his 

g  and  approved   by  his  maxims.     He  looked  at  the 

l,nowafree  lady's  hand.    Willoughby settled, his  chance 

at.     Who  else  was  in  the  way  ?     No  one.     He  coun- 

d  himself  to  wait  for  her:  she  might  have  ideas  of  deli- 

Her  face  was  troubled,  speculative;  the  brows  clouded, 

the  Lips  compressed. 

"  Von  have  Tint  heard  this  from  Miss  Dale?"  she  said. 
"  Last  night  they  were  together:  this  morning-  she  fled.  I 
saw  her  this  morning  distressed.  She  is  unwilling  to  send 
you  a  mes  age  :  she  talks  vaguely  of  meeting  you  some  days 
hence.  And  it  is  not  the  first  time  he  has  gone  to  her  for 
his  consolal  ion." 

••That  is  not  a  proposal,"  Clara  reflected.  "He  is  too 
prudent.  J I  c  did  not  propose  to  her  at  the  time  you  men- 
tion.    Have  von  not  been  hasty.  Colonel  De  Crave?" 

Shadows  crossed  her  forehead.  She  glanced  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  house,  and  stopped  her  walk. 

•  Last  night,  Miss  Middleton,  there  was  a  listener." 
"  Wh 

"Crossjay  was  under  that  pretty  silk  coverlet  worked  by 

the  Miss    Patternes.       lie  came  home  late,  found  his  door 

!      :ed,  and  dashed  downstairs  into  the  drawing-room,  where 

he   snuggled    up   and   dropped   asleep.      The  two   speakers 

woke  him  ;  they  frightened  the  poor  dear  lad  in  his  love  for 

you.  and  after  they  had  gone,  he  wanted  to  run  out  of  the 

and  I  met  him,  jusl  after  I  had  come  back  from  my 

eh,  bursting,  and  took  him  to  my  room,  and  laid  him  on 

the  Bofa,  and  abused  him  for  not  lying  quiet.     He  was  rest- 

:'~  a  fish  on  a  hank.     Winn  I  woke  in  the  morning  he 

Dr.  Corney  came  across  him  somewhere  on   the 

I        I  and  drove  him  to  the  cottage.      J  was  ringing  the  bell. 

'  d    me   the   hoy    had   yon   on   his   brain,  and  was 

miserable,  so  Crossjay  and  1  bad  a  talk." 

did  not  repeat  to  you  the  conversation  he  had 
aid  Clara. 

•  N 


A  PERCEPTIVE  MIND.  427 

She  smiled  rejoicingly,  proud  of  the  boy,  as  she  walked 
on. 

" "  But  you'll  pardon  me,  Miss  Middleton — and  I'm  for  him 
as  much  as  you  are — if  I  was  guilty  of  a  little  angling." 

"My  sympathies  are  with  the  fish." 

"The  poor  fellow  had  a  secret  that  hurt  him.  It  rose  to 
the  surface  crying  to  be  hooked,  and  I  spared  him  twice  or 
thrice,  because  he  had  a  sort  of  holy  sentiment  I  respected, 
that  none  but  Mr.  Whitford  ought  to  be  his  father  con- 
fessor." 

"  Crossjay !  "  she  cried,  hugging  her  love  of  the  boy. 

"  The  secret  was  one  not  to  be  communicated  to  Miss  Dale 
of  all  people." 

"  He  said  that  ?  " 

"  As  good  as  the  very  words.  She  informed  me  too,  that 
she  couldn't  induce  him  to  face  her  straight." 

"  Oh !  that  looks  like  it.  And  Crossjay  was  unhappy  ? 
Very  unhappy  ?  " 

"He  was  just  where  tears  are  on  the  brim,  and  would 
have  bean  over,  if  he  were  not  such  a  manly  youngster." 

"It  looks  .  .  .  ."  She  reverted  in  thought  to  Willoughby, 
and  doubted,  and  blindly  stretched  hands  to  her  recollection 
of  the  strange  old 'monster  she  had  discovered  in  him.  Such 
a  man  could  do  anything. 

That  conclusion  fortified  her  to  pursue  her  walk  to  the 
house  and  give  battle  for  freedom.  Willoughby  appeared  to 
her  scarce  human,  unreadable,  save  by  the  key  that  she 
could  supply.  She  determined  to  put  faith  in  Colonel  De 
Craye's  marvellous  divination  of  circumstances  in  the  dark. 
Marvels  are  solid  weapons  when  we  are  attacked  by  real 
prodigies  of  nature.  Her  countenance  cleared.  She  con- 
versed with  De  Crave  of  the  polite  and  the  political  world, 
throwing  off  her  personal  burden  completely,  and  charming 
him. 

At  the  edge  of  the  garden,  on  the  bridge  that  crossed  the 
haha  from  the  park,  he  had  a  second  impulse,  almost  a 
warning  within,  to  seize  his  heavenly  opportunity  to  ask  for 
thanks  and  move  her  tender  lowered  eyelids  to  hint  at  his 
reward.     He  repressed  it,  doubtful  of  the  wisdom. 

Something  like  "  heaven  forgives  me  !  "  was  in  Clara's 
mind,  though  she  would  have  declared  herself  innocent 
before  the  scrutator. 


428  MB   EGOIST. 


CHAPTER  XLITL 

Df  WHICH  ?1H  WILLOUGHBY  IS  LED  TO  TrnXK  THAT  THE 
ELEMENTS  HAVE  CONSPIRED  AGAINST  HI.M. 

Claea  had  not  taken  many  steps  in  the  garden  before  sha 
learnt  hi  >t  waa  her  debt  of  gratitude  to  Colonel  De 

i  e.  Willoughby  and  her  father  were  awaiting  her.  Do 
Crave,  with  his  ready  comprehension  of  circumstances, 
turned  aside  unseen  among  the  shrubs.  She  advanced 
slowly. 

"  '1  ours,  we  may  trust,  have  dispersed  ?  "  her  father 

hailed  her. 

"  •  >ne  word,  iiinl  these  discussions  are  over,  we  dislike 
them  equally,"  said  Willoughby. 

"No  scenes,"  Dr.  Middleton added.  "  Speak  your  decision 
my  girl,  pro  fonna,  seeing  that  lie  who  has  the  light  demands 
it,  and  pray  release  me." 

i  llara  looked  at  Willoughby. 

"I  have  decided  to  go  to  Miss  Dale  for  her  advice." 

There  was  no  appearance  in  him  of  a  man  that  has  been 

phot. 

"To  Miss  Dale?— for  advice?" 

Dr.  Middleton  invoked  the  Furies.  "  What  is  the  signifi- 
cation of  this  new  freak  ?  " 

■•  Miss  Dale  must  be  consulted,  papa." 
"Consulted  with  reference  to  the  disposal  of  your  band 
in  marriage  ?  ' 
She  must  be." 
"  Miss  Dal-,  do  you  say?" 
"  I  do.  papa." 

Dr.    Middleton    regained    his  natural  elevation    from    the 

i  of   body  habitual  with  men  of   an  cm n Wished  sanity, 

jj    gues  and  others,  who  are  called  on  at  odd  intervals 

pect   the  magnitude  of  the  LnfinitesimaHy  absurd  in 

human   nature:     small,  that    is.  under  the   light  of   reason, 

immense  in  the  realms  of  madness. 

Hi-  daughter  profoundly  confused  him.  He  swelled  out 
his  chest,  remark  in '_r  to  Willoughby:  "I  do  not  wonder  at 
your  sea  re  i !  ,  ,,f  countenance,  my  friend.      To  dis- 


A  CONSPIRACY  OP  THE  ELEMENTS.  429 

cover  yourself  engaged  to  a  girl  as  mad  as  Cassandra,  with- 
out a  boast  of  the  distinction  of  her  being  sun-struck,  can  be 
no  specially  comfortable  enlightenment.  I  am  opposed  to 
delays,  and  I  will  not  have  a  breach  of  faith  committed  by 
daughter  of  mine." 

"  Do  not  repeat  those  words,"  Clara  said  to  Willoughby. 

He  started.  She  had  evidently  come  armed.  But  how, 
within  so  short  a  space  ?  What  could  have  instructed  her  ? 
And  in  his  bewilderment  he  gazed  hurriedly  above,  gulped 
air,  and  cried:  "Scared,  sir?  I  am  not  aware  that  my 
countenance  can  show  a  scare.  I  am  not  accustomed  to  sue 
for  long:  I  am  unable  to  sustain  the  part  of  humble  r  ippli- 
cant.  She  puts  me  out  of  harmony  with  creation — We  are 
plighted,  Clara.  It  is  pure  waste  of  time  to  speak  of  solicit- 
ing advice  on  the  subject." 

"  Would  it  be  a  breach  of  faith  for  me  to  break  my  en- 
gagement ?  "  she  said. 

"You  ask?" 

"  It  is  a  breach  of  sanity  to  propound  the  interrogation," 
said  her  father. 

She  looked  at  Willoughby  !     "  Now  ?  " 

He  shrugged  haughtily. 

"  Since  last  night  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Last  night  ?  " 

"  Am  I  not  released  ?  " 

"Not  by  me." 

"  By  your  act." 

"My  dear  Clara!" 

"  Have  you  not  virtually  disengaged  me  ?  " 

"  I  who  claim  you  as  mine  ?  " 

"  Can  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  and  must." 

"  After  last  night  ?  " 

"  Tricks  !  shufflings  !  Jabber  of  a  barbarian  woman  upon 
the  evolutions  of  a  serpent !  "  exclaimed  Dr.  Middleton. 
"  Tou  were  to  capitulate,  or  to  furnish  reasons  for  your  re- 
fusal. You  have  none.  Give  him  your  hand,  girl,  according 
to  the  compact.  I  praised  you  to  him  for  returning  within 
the  allotted  term,  and  now  forbear  to  disgrace  yourself  and 
me." 

"  Is  he  perfectly  free  to  offer  his  ?     Ask  him,  papa." 

"  Perform  your  duty.     Do  let  us  have  peace  !  " 


Tin;  i  QOIST. 

•■  Perfectly  free  I  bs  on  the  day  when  I  offered  it  first," 
Willoughby  frankly  waved  his  bonourable  band. 

Bis  face  was  blanched  :  enemies  in  the  air  seemed  to  have 
whispered    things   to  her:    ho  doubted  tho  fidelity   of   thu 
abo\  !•. 
•■  Since  last  night  P  "  saM  she. 
"Oh!  if  you  insist,  T  reply,  since  lasl  night." 
"Ton  know  whal  1  mean,  Sir  Willoughby." 
"i  lh!  certainly." 
"  Fou  Bpeak  the  (ruth  ?  " 

'"Sir  Willoughby'!"    her  father    ejaculated  in   wrath. 

"But  will  you   explain  what  you   mean,  epitome  that  you 

are   of  all   tin'  contradictions  ami  mutabilities  ascribed  to 

ion  from  tlie  beginning!     'Certainly,'  he  says,  ami  knows 

no  more  than  I.     She  begs  grace  lor  an   hour,  and  returns 

with   a    fresh   store   of   evasions,  to   insult  the  man  she  has 

injured.     It  is  my  humiliation  to  confess  that  our  share  in 

itract  is  ed  from  public  ignominy  by  his  gen- 

i'..     Nor  can  I  congratulate  him  on  his  fortune,  should 

•  ml  to  bear  with   you  to  the  utmost;  for  instead 

of  the  young  woman  1  supposed  myself  to  be   bestowing  on 

him,  I  see  a  fantastical  planguncula  enlivened  by  the  \\  anton 

tempers  of  a  nursery  chit.     If  one  may  conceive  a  meaning 

in  her,  in  miserable  apology  for  sueh  behaviour,  some  spirit 

of  jealousy  informs  the  girl." 

"I  can  only  remark,  that  there  is  no  foundation  for  it," 
said  Willoughby.  "lam  willing  to  sntisly  you,  Clara. 
Name  the  person  who  discomposes  you.  I  can  scarcely 
imagine  one  to  exist  :  bul  who  can  t<  II  ?  " 

She  could  name  no  person.     The  detestable  imputation  of 

11- .   would  be  confirmed  if  she  mentioned  a  name:  and 

ed  Lael  it  ia  was  not  to  be  named. 

He  pursued  his  advantage:  "Jealousy  is  one  of  the  fits 

lam  a  stranger  to, —  I   fancy,  sir,  that  gentlemen  have  dis- 

i       ed  it.     I  Bpcak  for  myself. — But  [  can  make  allowances. 

I  it    is  considered   a  compliment;  and  often  a 

1  will  Boothe  it.    The  whole  affair  is  bo  senseless!     Bow- 

,1  will  enter  the  witness-box,  or  stand  at  the  prisoner's 

bar!     Anything  to  qniel  a  distempered  mind." 

"Of  yon.  sir,"  said    Dr.  Middleton,  "might  a  parent  be 

id." 
"  It  is  not  jealousy  ;   I  could  not  he  jealous  !  "  Clara  cried. 


A  CONSPIRACY  OF  THE  ELEMENTS.  431 

string  by  the  very  passion  ;  and  she  ran  through  her  brain 
for  a  suggestion  to  win  a  sign  of  meltingness  if  not  esteem 
from  her  father.  She  was  not  an  iron  maiden,  but  one  among 
the  nervous  natures  which  live  largely  in  the  moment,  thonqh, 
she  was  then  sacrificing  it  to  her  nature's  deep  dislike. 
"  You  may  be  proud  of  me  again,  papa." 

She  could  hardly  have  uttered  anything  more  impolitic. 

"  Optume:  but  deliver  yourself  ad  rem,"  he  rejoined, 
alarmingly  pacified.  "  F irmavit  fidem.  Do  you  likewise, 
and  double  on  us  no  more  like  puss  in  the  field." 

"I  wish  to  see  Miss  Dale,"  she  said. 

Up  flew  the  Rev.  doctor's  arms  in  wrathful  despair  re- 
sembling an  imprecation. 

"  She  is  at  the  cottage.  You  could  have  seen  her,"  said 
Willoughby. 

Evidently  she  had  not. 

"  Is  it  untrue,  that  last  night,  between  twelve  o'clock  and 
one,  in  the  drawing-room,  you  proposed  marriage  to  Miss 
Dale  ?  " 

He  became  convinced  that  she  must  have  stolen  down- 
stairs during  his  colloquy  with  Lcetitia,  and  listened  at  the 
door. 

"  On  behalf  of  old  Vernon  ?  "  he  said,  lightly  laughing. 
"  The  idea  is  not  novel,  as  you  know.  They  are  suited,  if 
thev  could  see  it. — Lastitia  Dale  and  my  cousin  Vernon 
Whitford,  sir." 

"  Fairly  schemed,  my  friend,  and  I  will  say  for  you,  you 
have  the  patience,  Willoughby — of  a  husband  !  " 

AYilloughby  bowed  to  the  encomium,  and  allowed  some 
fatigue  to  be  visible,  fie  half  yawned:  "I  claim  no  happier 
title,  sir,"  and  made  light  of  the  weariful  discussion. 

Clara  was  shaken  :  she  feared  that  Cross  jay  had  heard 
incorrectly,  or  that  Colonel  De  Craye  had  guessed  erroneously. 
It  was  too  likely  that  Willoughby  should  have  proposed 
Vernon  to  La?titia. 

There  was  nothing  to  reassure  her  save  the  vision  of  the 
panic  amazement  of  his  face  at  her  persistency  in  speaking 
of  Miss  Dale.  She  could  have  declared  on  oath  that  she 
was  right,  while  admitting  all  the  suppositions  to  be  against 
her.  And  unhappily  all  the  Delicacies  (a  doughty  battalion 
for  the  defence  of  ladies  until  they  enter  into  difficulties  and 
are  shorn  of  them  at  a  blow,  bare  as  dairymaids),   all  the 


432  TDK  EflOTST. 

i  -  iard    of   a   young    gentlewoman,  the  drawing-room 

sylphides,  which   bear   her  train,   which   wreathe  her  hair, 

which  modulate  her  voice  and  tone   her  complexion,  which 

arrows  and  shield  to  awe  the  creature  man,  forbade  her 

ntteran t  whal  she  felt,  on  pain  of  instant  fulfilment  of 

their  oft-repeated   threat    of    late  to  leave  her  to  the  last 

remnant  of  a  protecting  sprite.     She  could  not,  as  in  a  dear 

haina.  from  the  aim  of  a  pointed  finger  denounce  him, 

on  the  testimony  of  her  instincts,  false   of  speech,  false  in 

deed.     She    could    not  even    declare  that   she  doubted   his 

3.     The  refuge  of  a  sullen  fit,  the  refuge  of  tears, 

■  \t  of  a  mood,  were   denied  her  now  by  the  rigour 

of  those  laws  of  decency  which  are  a  garment  to  ladies  of 

pure  breeding. 

"One    m<  pite,  papa,"    she   implored   him,  bitterly 

ciona  of  the  closer  tangle  her  petition  involved,  and,  if 

it  must  be  betrayed  of  her,  perceiving  in  an  illumination 

how  the  knot  might  become  so  woefully  Gordian  that  haply 

in  a  cloud  of    wild    events    the  intervention  of  a  gallant 

leman   out  of  heaven,  albeit  in  the   likeness   of  one  of 

earth,  woaldhave  to  cut  it:  her  cry  within,  as  she  succumbed 

to  weakness,  being  fervider:  '  Anything  bnt  marry  this  one!' 

She  was  faint    with   strife   and   dejected,  a   condition  in  the 

yonng  when  their   imaginative  energies  hold  revel  uncon- 

fcrol  ■   I  are  protectively  desperate. 

••  No  i-i  -pile!"  said  Willoughby  genially. 

"And   I   say,  no   respite!"  observed  her  father.     "Ton 

have  assumed  a  position  that  has  not  been  granted  you,  Clara 

Middleton." 

'•  I  cannot  bear  to  offend  you,  father." 

'•Him!     Your  duty  is  not  to  offend   him.     Address  your 
'  to    him.       I  refuse  to  be  dragged  over  the  same 

■    I,  to  reiterate  the  same  command  perpetually." 
•■  It  authority  is  deputed  to  me,  I  claim  you,"  said  Wil- 
loughby. 

••  You  have  not  broken  faith  with  me  ?  " 

Assuredly  not,  or  would  it  be  possible  for  me  to  press 
my  claim  . 

bid  join  the  right  hand  to  the  right,"  said  Dr.  Mid- 

d     ton:   ''no.it   would    not    be    possible.      What  insane  root 

she    has   been    nibbling,  I    know  not,  but   she  must  consign 

■It  to  the  guid  of  those  whom  the  gods   have  not 


A  CONSPIRACY  OF  TITF  ELEMENTS.  433 

abandoned,  until  her  intellect  is  liberated.  She  was  once  .... 
there  :  I  look  not  back  : — if  she  it  was,  and  no  simulacrum 
of  a  reasonable  daughter.  I  welcome  the  appearance  of  my 
friend  Mr.  Whitford.  He  is  my  sea-bath  and  supper  on  the 
beach  of  Troy,  after  the  day's  battle  and  dust." 

Vernon  walked  straight  up  to  them  :  an  act  unusual  with 
him,  for  he  was  shy  of  committing  an  intrusion. 

Clara  guessed  by  that,  and  more  by  the  dancing  frown  of 
speculative  humour  he  turned  on  Willoughby,  that  he  had 
come  charged  in  support  of  her.  His  forehead  was  curiously 
lively,  as  of  one  who  has  got  a  surprise  well  under,  to  feed 
on  its  amusing  contents. 

"  Have  you  seen  Crossjay,  Mr.  Whitford  ?  "  she  said. 
"  I've  pounced  on  Crossjay;  his  bones  are  sound." 
"  Where  did  he  sleep  ?  " 
"  On  a  sofa,  it  seems." 

She  smiled,  with  good  hope ;  Vernon  had  the  story. 
Willoughby  thought  it    just  to  himself  that  he  should 
defend  his  measure  of  severity. 

"  The  boy  lied ;  he  pfayed  a  double  game." 
"  For  which   he  should  have  been  reasoned  with  at  the 
Grecian  portico  of  a  boy,"  said  the  Rev.  doctor. 

"  My  system  is  different,  sir.  I  could  not  inflict  what  I 
would  not  endure  myself." 

"  So  is  Greek  excluded  from  the  later  generations  ;  and 
you  leave  a  field,  the  most  fertile  in  the  moralities  in  youth, 
unploughed  and  unsown.  Ah!  well.  This  growing  too  fine 
is  our  way  of  relapsing  upon  barbarism.  Beware  of  over- 
sensitiveness,  where  nature  has  plainly  indicated  her  alter- 
native  gateway  of  knowledge.  And  now,  I  presume,  I  am 
at  liberty." 

"  Vernon  will  excuse  us  for  a  minute  or  two." 
"I  hold  bv  Mr.  Whitford  now  I  have  him." 
"I'll  join   you  in  the    laboratory,   Vernon,"  Willoughby 
nodded  bluntly. 

"  We  will  leave  them,  Mr.  Whitford.  They  are  at  the 
time-honoured  dissension  upon  a  particular  day  that,  for  the 
sake  of  dignity,  blushes  to  be  named." 

"  What  dav  ?  "  said  Vernon,  like  a  rustic. 
"  The  day,  these  people  call  it." 

Vernon  sent  one  of  his  "vivid  eyeshots  from  one  to  the 
other.     His  eyes   fixed  on  Willoughby 's  with   a  quivering 

2f 


TEIE  FOOTST. 

plow,  beyond  amazement,  as  if  his  humour  stood  at  furnace 
heat,  and  absorbed  all  t  hat  came. 
Willonghby  m  it  ioned  to  him  to  go. 
•  Have  you  Been  Miss  Dale,  Mr.  Whitford?"  said  Clara. 
He  answered  :  "-  No.     Something  has  shocked  her." 
'•  Is  it  her  feeling  for  Crossjay  ?  " 

•■  Ah,''  Vernon  Baid  to  Willonghby,  "your  pocketing  of 
tin'  key  of  Crossjay 's  bed-room  door  was  a  masterstroke!" 

The  celestial  irony  suffused  her,  and  she  bathed  and 
swam  iii  it,  on  bearing  its  dupe  reply:  "My  methods  of 
discipline  are  short.  I  was  not  aware  that  she  had  been  to 
bis  duor." 

'  but  I  may  hope  that  Miss  Dale  will  see  me,"  said  Clara. 
"We  are  in  sympathy  about  the  hoy." 

'-.Mi-.  Dale  might  be  seen.  He  seems  to  be  of  a  divided 
mind  with  his  daughter,"  Vernon  rejoined.  "  She  has 
locked  herself  up  in  her  room." 

"  He  is  not  the  only  father  in  that  unwholesome  predica- 
ment,"  said  Dr.  Middleton. 

'•  II"  talks  of  comimr  to  you,  Willdiighby." 
"Why   to  me?"       Willoughby  chastened  his  irritation: 
"  He  will  be  welcome,  of  course.     It  would  be  better  that 
the  l»oy  should  come." 

"  I ;  t  here  is  a  chance  of  your  forgiving  him,"  said  Clara. 
Let  the  Dales  know  I  am  prepared  to  listen  to  the  boy, 
aon.     There  can  be  no  necessity  for  Mr.  Dale  to  drag 
himself  here." 

'  1 1" ■■'■'  are  Mr.  Dale  and  his  daughter  of  a  divided  mind," 
Mr.  Whitford?"  said  Clara. 

non  simulated   an    uneasiness.      With  a  vacant  gaze 
enlarged  around  Willoughby  and  was  more  discomfort. 
ing  than  intentness,  Ik;  replied:  "Perhaps  she  is  unwilling 
•     jive  him  her  entire  confidence,  .Mi^s  Middleton." 

In    which    respect,    then,    our    situations    present    their 
solitary   point  of  onlikeness  in  resemblance,  for  I  have  it  in 
,"  obsen  i  'I  I  >r.  Middleton. 

dropped  her  eyelids  for  the  wave  to  pass  over.     "It 

■true  that  Miss   Dale   was  a  person  of  the  extremest 

lour." 

'Why  should    we   be   prying   into  the  domestic  affairs  of 

Willonghby     interjected,    and   drew   out   his 

watch,    merely    fur   a   diversion;    he    was   on   tiptoe  to  learn 


A  CONSPIRACY  OF  THE  ELEMENTS.  435 

whefher  Vernon  was  as  well  instructed  as  Clara,  and  hung 
to  the  view  that  he  could  not  be,  while  drenching  in  the 
sensation  that  he  was  : — and  if  so,  what  were  the  Powers 
above  but  a  body  of  conspirators  ?  He  paid  Laatitia  that 
compliment.  He  could  not  conceive  the  human  beti'ayal  of 
the  secret.  Clara's  discovery  of  it  had  set  his  common  sense 
adrift. 

"  The  domestic  affairs  of  the  Dales  do  not  concern  me," 
said  Vernon. 

"  And  yet,  my  friend,"  Dr.  Middleton  balanced  himself, 
and  with  an  air  of  benevolent  slyness,  the  import  of  which 
did  not  awaken  Willoughby  until  too  late, remarked:  "They 
might  concern  you.  I  will  even  add,  that  there  is  a  pro- 
bability of  your  being  not  less  than  the  fount  and  origin  of 
this  division  of  father  and  daughter,  though  "Willoughby  in 
the  drawing-room  last  night  stands  accuseably  the  agent." 

"  Favour  me,  sir,  with  an  explanation,"  said  Vernon, 
seeking  to  gather  it  from  Clara. 

Dr.  Middleton  threw  the  explanation  upon  "Willoughby. 

Clara  communicated  as  much  as  she  was  able  in  one  of 
those  looks  of  still  depth  which  say,  Think  !  and  without 
causing  a  thought  to  stir,  take  us  into  the  pellucid  mind. 

Vernon  Avas  enlightened  before  Willoughby  had  spoken. 
His  mouth  shut  rigidly,  and  there  was  a  springing  increase 
of  the  luminous  wavering  of  his  eyes.  Some  star  that  Clara 
had  watched  at  night  was  like  them  in  the  vivid  wink  and 
overflow  of  its  light.  Yet,  as  he  was  perfectly  sedate,  none 
could  have  suspected  his  blood  to  be  chasing  wild  with 
laughter,  and  his  frame  strung  to  the  utmost  to  keep  it  from 
volleying.  So  happy  was  she  in  his  aspect,  that  her  chief 
anxiety  was  to  recover  the  name  of  the  star  whose  shining 
beckons  and  speaks,  and  is  in  the  quick  of  spirit-fire.  It  is 
the  sole  star  which  on  a  night  of  frost  and  strong  moonlight 
preserves  an  indomitable  fervency  :  that  she  remembered, 
and  the  picture  of  a  hoar  earth  and  a  lean  Orion  in  flooded 
heavens,  and  the  star  beneath,  Eastward  of  him  :  but  the 
name  !  the  name  ! — She  heard  Willoughby  indistinctly. 

"  Oh,  the  old  story;  another  effort;  you  know  my  wish;  a 
failure,  of  course,  and  no  thanks  on  either  side,  I  suppose  I 
must  ask  your  excuse. — They  neither  of  them  see  what's 
good  for  them,  sir." 

"  Manifestly,  however,"   said  Dr.   Middleton,  "  if  on e  may 

2f2 


TEE  EGOIST. 

opine   from    the   division  we  have  heard  of,  the   father  is 
disposed  to  ba<  nominee." 

•1  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  made  a  mess  of 

■ 

r 

Vernon  withstood  the  incitement  to  acquiesce,  but  he 
sparkled  with  his  recognition  of  the  fact. 

•■  Yon  meanl  well,  W'illoughby." 

"  1  hope  su,  Vernon." 

"  (  Inly  you  have  driven  her  away." 

"We  must  resign  ourselves." 

"It  won't  affect  me,  for  I'm  off  to-morrow." 

"You  see,  sir.  the  t  hunks  ]  get." 

"Mr.  Whit  toi-d,"  said  I  >r.  M  iddleton,  "  you  have  a  tower 
of  Btrength  in  the  lady's  rather.'' 

••  Would  you  have  me  bring  it  to  bear  upon  the  lady, 
sir  r 

-  Wherefore  not?" 

"  To  make  her  marriage  a  matter  of  obedience  to  her 
fat  lor?" 

'•  Ay,  my  friend,  a  lusty  lover  would  have  her  gladly 
on  those  terms,  well  knowing  it  to  be  for  the  lady's  good. 
Whal  do  you  say,  Willoughby  ?  " 

"Sir!     Say?      Whal   can   1  say?      Miss   Dale   has   not 
plighted  her  faith.     Had  she  done  so,  she  is  a  lady  who 
ild  never  dishonour  it." 

•'  She  is  an  ideal  of  constancy,  who  would  keep  to  it 
though  it  had  been  broken  on  the  other  side,"  said  Vernon, 
and  ( Ilara  thrilled. 

'  I  take  that,  sir,  to  be  a  statue  of  constancy,  modelled 
upon  which,  a  lady  of  our  flesh  may  be  proclaimed  as 
graduating  for  the  condition  of  idiotcy,"  said  Dr.  Middle- 
i 

"  Hut  faith  is  faith,  sir." 

"But  the  broken  is  the  broken,  sir,  -whether  in  porcelain 

or  in  human  engagements:  and  all  that  the  one  of  the  two 

continuing  faithful.   I  should   rather  say,  regretful,  can  do, 

•  devote  the  remainder  of  life  to  the  picking  up  of  the 

frag  ■    an  occupation    properly  to  be  pursued,  for  the 

comfort  of  mankind,  within  the    enclosure  of    an  appointed 

i." 

'  V  ,  i  d<  the  poetry  of  sentiment,  Dr.  Middleton." 

"  To  invigorate  the  poetry  of  nature,  Mr.  Whitford." 


A  CONSPIRACY  OF  THE  ELEMENTS.  437 

"Then  you.  maintain,  sir,  that  when  faith  is  broken  by 
one,  the  engagement  ceases,  and  the  other  is  absolutely 
free  ?  " 

"I  do;  I  am  the  champion  of  that  platitude,  and  sound 
that  knell  to  the  sentimental  world  ;  and  since  you  have 
chosen  to  defend  it,  I  will  appeal  to  Willoughby,  and  ask 
him  if  he  would  not  side  with  the  world  of  good  sense  in 
applauding  the  nuptials  of  man  or  maid  married  within  a 
month  of  a  jilting  ?  " 

Clara  slipped  her  arm  under  her  father's. 

"  Poetry,  sir,"  said  AVilloughby,  "  I  never  have  been  hypo- 
crite  enough  to  pretend  to  understand  or  care  for." 

Dr.  Middleton  laughed.  Yernon  too  seemed  to  admire 
his  cousin  for  a  reply  that  rang  in  Clara's  ears  as  the 
dullest  ever  spoken.  Her  arm  grew  cold  on  her  father's. 
She  began  to  fear  Willoughby  again. 

He  depended  entirely  on  his  agility  to  elude  the  thrusts 
that  assailed  him.  Had  he  been  able  to  believe  in  the 
treachery  of  the  Powers  above,  he  would  at  once  have 
seen  design  in  these  deadly  strokes,  for  his  feelings  had 
rarely  been  more  acute  than  at  the  present  crisis ;  and  he 
would  then  have  led  away  Clara,  to  wrangle  it  out  with  her, 
relying  on  Vernon's  friendliness  not  to  betray  him  to  her 
father  :  but  a  wrangle  with  Clara  promised  no  immediate 
fruits,  nothing  agreeable  ;  and  the  lifelong  trust  he  had  re- 
posed in  his  protecting  genii,  obscured  his  intelligence  to 
evidence  he  would  otherwise  have  accepted  on  the  spot,  on 
the  faith  of  his  delicate  susceptibility  to  the  mildest  im- 
pressions which  wounded  him.  Clara  might  have  stooped  to 
listen  at  the  door  :  she  might  have  heard  sufficient  to  create 
a  suspicion.  But  Yernon  was  not  in  the  house  last  night ; 
she  could  not  have  communicated  it  to  him,  and  he  had  not 
seen  Lastitia,  who  was  besides  trustworthy,  an  admirable  if 
a  foolish  and  ill-fated  woman. 

Preferring  to  consider  Yernon  a  pragmatical  moralist 
played  upon  by  a  sententious  drone,  he  thought  it  politic  to 
detach  them,  and  vanquish  Clara  while  she  was  in  the  beaten 
mood,  as  she  had  appeared  before  Vernon's  vexatious 
arrival. 

"  I'm  afraid,  my  dear  fellow,  you  are  rather  too  dainty  and 
fussy  for  a  very  successful  wooer,"  he  said.  "  It's  beautiful 
on  paper,  and  absurd  in  life.     We  have  a  bit  of  private  busi* 


TTTE  EGOIST. 

i         to  discuss.     We  will  go  inside,  sir,  I  think.    I  will  soon 
i." 

Clara  pressed  her  father's  arm. 

"  lid  he. 

"  Five  minutes.  There's  a  slight  delusion  to  clear,  sir. 
My  dear  Clara,  you  will  see  with  different  eyes." 

'■■  Papa  wishes  to  work  with  .Mr.  Whitford." 

Her  bear!  sank  to  hear  her  father  say:  "  No,  'tis  a  lost 
morning.  I  must  consent  to  pay  tax  of  it  forgiving  another 
young  woman  to  the  world.  I  have  a  daughter !  You  will, 
1  hope,  compensate  me.  Mr.  Whitford,in  the  afternoon.  Be 
not  downcast.  I  have  observed  you  meditative  of  late.  You 
will  have  no  clear  brain  so  long  as  that  stuff  is  on  the  mind. 
I  could  venture  to  propose  to  do  some  pleading  for  you, 
should  it  be  needed  for  the  prompter  expedition  of  the 
ir." 

Vernon  briefly  thanked  him,  and  said  : 

"  Willoughby  has  exerted  all  his  eloquence,  and  you  see 
the  result :  you  have  lost  Miss  Dale  and  I  have  not  won  her. 
He  did  everything  that  one  man  can  do  for  another  in  so 
delicate  a  case:  oven  to  the 'repeating  of  her  famous  birth- 
day  verses  to  him,  to  flatter  the  poetess.  His  best  efforts 
were  foiled  by  the  lady's  indisposition  forme." 

"  Behold,"  said  Dr.  Middleton,  as  Willoughby,  electrified 
by  the  mention  of  the  verses,  took  a  sharp  stride  or  two, 
"you  have  in  him  an  advocate  who  will  not  be  rebuffed  by 
one  refusal,  and  I  can  affirm  that  he  is  tenacious,  pertinacious 
as  are  few.  Justly  so.  Not  to  believe  in  a  lady's  No,  is  the 
approved  method  of  carrying  that  fortress  built  to  yield. 
Although  unquestionably  to  have  a  young  man  pleading  in 
our  interests  with  a  lady,  counts  its  objections.  Yet  Wil- 
loughby being  notoriously  engaged,  may  be  held  to  enjoy  the 
privileges  of  his  elders." 

"  As  an  engaged  man,  sir,  he  was  on  a  level  with  his  elders 
in  pleading  on  my  behalf  with  Mi>>  Dale,"  said  Vernon. 

Willoughby  strode  and  muttered.  Providence  had  grown 
mythical  in  his  thoughts,  if  not  malicious  :  and  it  is  the  peril 
of  t!.  ship,  that  the  object  will  wearsuch  an  alternative 

■  when  it  appears  no  loi  abservient. 

•  Are  we  coming,  sir  ?  "  he  said,  and  was  unheeded.     The 
Rev.  doctor  would  not  ho  do'Vau  led  ()f  rolling  his  billow. 
As  an  honourable  gentleman  faithful  to  his  own  engage- 


A  CONSPIRACY  OP  THE  ELEMENTS.  439 

ment  and  desirous  of  establishing  his  relatives,  he  deserves, 
in  my  judgement,  the  lady's  esteem  as  well  as  your  cordial 
thanks ;  nor  should  a  temporary  failure  dishearten  either  of 
you,  notwithstanding  the  precipitate  retreat  of  the  lady  from 
Patterne,  and  her  seclusion  in  her  sanctum  on  the  occasion 
of  your  recent  visit." 

"  Supposing  he  had  succeeded,"  said  Vernon,  driving  Wil- 
loughby to  frenzy,  "  should  I  have  been  bound  to  marry  ?" 

Matter  for  cogitation  was  offered  to  Dr.  Middleton. 

"  The  proposal  was  without  your  sanction  ?  " 

"  Entirely." 

"  You  admire  the  lady  ?  " 

"  Respectfully." 

"  You  do  not  incline  to  the  state  ?" 

"  An  inch  of  an  angle  w-ouli  exaggerate  my  inclination." 

"  How  long  are  we  to  stand  and  hear  this  insufferable  non- 
sense you  talk  ?  "  cried  Willoughby. 

"  But  if  Mr.  Whitford  was  not  consulted  .  .  .  ."  Dr.  Middle- 
ton  said,  and  was  overborne  by  Willoughby 's  hurried : 
"  Oblige  me,  sir. — Oblige  me,  my  good  fellow  !  "  he  swept  his 
arm  to  Vernon,  and  gestured  a  conducting  hand  to  Clara. 

"Here  is  Mrs.  Mountstuart!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Willoughby  stared.  Was  it  an  irruption  of  a  friend  or  a 
foe  ?  He  doubted,  and  stood  petrified  between  the  double- 
question. 

Clara  had  seen  Mrs.  Mountstuart  and  Colonel  De  Craye 
separating:  and  now  the  great  lady  sailed  along  the  sward 
like  a  royal  barge  in  festival  trim. 

She  looked  friendly,  but  friendly  to  everybody,  which  was 
always  a  frost  on  Willoughby,  and  terribly  friendly  to  Clara. 

Coming  up  to  her  she  whipered  :  "  News  indeed  !  Wonder- 
ful !  I  could  not  credit  his  hint  of  it  yesterday.  Are  you 
satisfied  ?  " 

"  Pray,  Mrs.  Mountstuart,  take  an  opportunity  to  speak  to 
papa,"  Clara  whispered  in  return. 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  bowed  to  Dr.  Middleton,  nodded  to  Ver- 
non, and  swam  upon  Willoughby,  with  :  "  Is  it  ?  But  is  it  ? 
Am  I  really  to  believe  ?  You  have  ?  My  dear  Sir  Wil- 
loughby ?     Really? " 

The  confounded  gentleman  heaved  on  a  bare  plank  of 
wreck  in  mid  sea. 

He  could  oppose  only  a  paralyzed  smile  to  the  assault. 


/  10  THE  EGOIST. 

His  intuitive  discretion  taught  him  to  fall  back  a  stop, 
while  she  Baid:  "  So!  "  the  plummet  word  of  our  mysterious 
i  fathoms ;  and  he  fell  back  further,  saying  :  "  Madam  ?  " 
in  a  tone  advising  her  to  speak  low. 

She  recovered  her  volubility,  followed  his  partial  retreat 
and  (1  mppod  her  voice  : 

"  Impossible  to  have  imagined  it  as  an  actual  fact !  Tou 
were  always  full  of  surprises,  but  this !  this !  Nothing  manlier, 
iv 'thing  more  gentlemanly  has  ever  been  done:  nothing: 
nothing  that  so  completely  changes  an  untenable  situation 
into  a  comfortable  and  proper  footing  for  everybody.  It  is 
what  I  like  :  it  is  what  I  love  : — sound  sense  !  Men  are  so 
selfish  :  one  cannot  persuade  them  to  be  reasonable  in  such 
positions.  But  you,  Sir  Willoughby,  have  shown  wisdom 
and  sentiment :  the  rarest  of  all  combinations  in  men." 

"  Where  have  you  ?  .  .  .  ."  Willoughby  contrived  to  say. 

"  Heai-d  ?  The  hedges,  the  house-tops,  everywhere.  All 
the  neighbourhood  will  have  it  before  nightfall.  Lady 
Busshe  and  Lady  Culnier  will  soon  be  rushing  here,  and 
declaring  they  never  expected  anything  else,  I  do  not  doubt. 
I  am  not  so  pretentious.  I  l>eg  your  excuse  for  that  '  twice  ' 
of  mine  yesterday.  Even  if  it  hurt  my  vanity,  I  should  be 
happy  to  confess  my  error :  I  was  utterly  out.  But  then  I 
did  not  reckon  on  a  fatal  attachment,  I  thought  men  wero 
incapable  of  it.  I  thought  we  women  were  the  only  poor 
creatures  persecuted  by  a  fatality.  It  is  a  fatality  !  You 
tried  hard  to  escape,  indeed  you  did.  And  she  will  do 
honour  to  your  final  surrender,  my  dear  friend.  She  is 
gentle,  and  very  clever,  very  :  she  is  devoted  to  you:  she 
will  entertain  excellently.  I  see  her  like  a  flower  in  sun- 
shine. She  will  expand  to  a  perfect  hostess.  Patterne  will 
shine  under  her  reign  ;  you  have  my  warrant  for  that.  And 
so  will  you.  Yes,  you  flourish  best  when  adored.  It  must 
be  adoration.  You  have  been  under  a  cloud  of  late.  Years 
ago  I  said  it  was  a  match,  when  no  one  supposed  you  could 
stoop.  Lady  Busshe  would  have  it  was  a  screen,  and  she 
was  deemed  high  wisdom.  The  world  will  be  with  you. 
All  the  women  will  be  :  excepting,  of  course,  Lady  Busshe, 
whose  pride  is  in  prophesy ;  and  she  will  soon  be  too  glad 
to  swell  the  host.  There,  my  friend,  your  sincerest  and 
oldest  admirer  congratulates  you.  I  could  not  contain 
myself;    I  was  compelled  to  pour  forth.      And  now  I  must 


A  CONSPIRACY  OP  THE  ELEMENTS.  441 

go  and  be  talked  to  by  Dr.  Middleton.      How  does  he  take 
it?     They  leave?" 

"  He  is  perfectly  well,"  said  Willoughby,  aloud,  quite  dis- 
traught. 

She  acknowledged  his  just  correction  of  her  for  running 
on  to  an  extreme  in  low-toned  converse,  though  they  stood 
sufficiently  isolated  from  the  others.  These  had  by  this  time 
been  joined  by  Colonel  De  Crave,  and  were  all  chatting  in  a 
group — of  himself,  Willoughby  horribly  suspected. 

Clara  was  gone  from  him  !  Gone  !  but  he  remembered 
his  oath  and  vowed  it  again:  not  to  Horace  De  Crave!  She 
was  gone,  lost,  sunk  into  the  world  of  waters  of  rival  men, 
and  he  determined  that  his  whole  force  should  be  used  to 
keep  her  from  that  man:  the  false  friend  who  had  supplanted 
him  in  her  shallow  heart,  and  might,  if  he  succeeded,  boast 
of  having  done  it  by  simply  appearing  on  the  scene. 

Willoughby  intercepted  Mrs.  Mountstuart  as  she  was 
passing  over  to  Dr.  Middleton  :  "  My  dear  lady  !  spare  me  a 
minute." 

*  De  Craye  sauntered  up,  with  a  face  of  the  friendliest 
humour :  "  Never  was  man  like  you,  Willoughby,  for  shaking 
new  patterns  in  a  kaleidoscope." 

"  Have  you  turned  punster.  Horace  ?  "  Willoughby  replied, 
smarting  to  find  yet  another  in  the  demon  secret,  and  he 
drew  Dr.  Middleton  two  or  three  steps  aside,  and  hurriedly 
begged  him  to  abstain  from  prosecuting  the  subject  with 
Clara.  "  We  must  try  to  make  her  happy  as  we  best  can, 
sir.  She  may  have  her  reasons — a  young  lady's  reasons !  " 
He  laughed,  and  left  the  Rev.  doctor  considering  within 
himself  under  the  arch  of  his  lofty  frown  of  stupefaction. 

De  Craye  smiled  slyly  and  winningly  as  he  shadowed  a 
deep  droop  on  the  bend  of  his  head  before  Clara,  signifying 
his  absolute  devotion  to  her  service,  and  this  present  good 
fruit  for  witness  of  his  merits. 

She  smiled  sweetly  though  vaguely.  There  was  no  con- 
cealment of  their  intimacy. 

"  The  battle  is  over,"  Vernon  said  quietly,  when  Wil- 
loughby had  walked  some  paces  beside  Mrs.  Mountstuart, 
adding :  "  You  may  expect  to  see  Mr.  Dale  here.  He 
knows." 

Vernon  and  Clara  exchanged  one  look,  hard  on  his  part, 
in  contrast  with  her  softness,  and  he  proceeded  to  the  house. 


.]  ;  _>  THE  EGOIST. 

De  Craye  waited  for  a  wprd  or  a  promising  loot.    Ho  was 

.  being  Bel f- assured,  and  passed  on, 
Clara   linked   her  arm   with   her  father's   once  more,  and 
I,  on  a  sadden  brightness :  "  Sirius,  papa !" 
He  repeated  H  in  the  profoundesl  manner:  "Sirius!    And 
is  there,    he  asked,  "a  feminine  scintilla  of  sense  in  that?" 
"It is  the  name  of  the  star  I  was  thinking  of,  dear  papa." 
'•  It  was  the  star  observed  by  King  Agamemnon  before  the 
[ficein  Anlis.     You  were  thinking  of  that?     But,  my 
.  1 1 1  \-  [phigeneia,  yon  have  not  a  father  who  will  insist 
on  sacrificing  yon." 

••  Did  I  hear  him  tell  you  to  humour  me,  papa  ?  " 

Dr.  Middleton  hnmphed. 

"  Verily  the  dog-star  rages  in  many  heads,"  he  responded. 


CHAPTER  XLTA7. 

DR.  MIDDLETON  :    THE   LADIES  ELEANOR  AND  ISABEL: 
AND  MR.  DALE. 

Clara  looked  up  at  the  flying  clouds.  She  travelled  with 
them  now.  and  tasti  'I  freedom,  but  she  prudently  forebore  to 
v<  ■   her  father;  she  held  herself  in  reserve. 

Tli'  summoned  by  the  mid-day  bell. 

1  •  ,v  were  speakers  at  the  meal,  few  were  eaters.       Clara 

impelled  to  join  it  by  her  desire  to  study  Mrs.  Mount- 

Bthart's  face.     Willonghby  was  obliged  to  preside.    It  was  a 

meal  of  an  assembly  of  mutes  and  plates,  that  struck  the  ear 

the  well-known  sound  of  a  collection    of   offerings  in 

church  after  an  impressive  exhortation  from  the  pulpit.     A 

sally  ut   Colonel    De  Craye's  met  the  reception  "riven  to  a 

charity-boy's  muffled  bnrsl  of  animal  Bpirits  in   the  silence 

of  t!i«'  sacred  edifice.     Willonghby  tried  polities  with  Dr. 

Middleton,  whose  regular  appetite  preserved  him  from  un- 

?enial  speculations  when  the  hour  for  appeasing  it  had 

cone-,    and  he  alone  did  honour  to  the  dishes,  replying  to 

hi>  host : 

"  'limes   an     bad,  yon  say.  and  we  have  a   Ministry  doing 


TEE   PATTERNE  LADIES.  443 

■with  us  what  they  will.  Well,  sir,  arid  that  being-  so,  and 
opposition  a  manner  of  kicking  them  into  greater  stability, 
it  is  the  time  for  wise  men  to  retire  within  themselves,  with 
the  steady  determination  of  the  seed  in  the  earth  to  grow. 
Repose  upon  nature,  sleep  in  firm  faith,  and  abide  the 
seasons.     That  is  my  counsel  to  the  weaker  party." 

The  counsel  was  excellent,  but  it  killed  the  topic. 

Dr.  Middleton's  appetite  was  watched  for  the  signal  to 
rise  and  breathe  freely  ;  and  such  is  the  grace  accorded  to  a 
good  man  of  an  untroubled  conscience  engaged  in  doing  his 
duty  to  himself,  that  he  perceived  nothing  of  the  general 
restlessness ;  he  went  through  the  dishes  calmly,  and  as 
calmly  he  quoted  Milton  to  the  ladies  Eleanor  and  Isabel, 
when  the  company  sprang  up  all  at  once  upon  his  closing 
his  repast.  Vernon  was  taken  away  from  him  by  Willoughby. 
Mrs.  Mountstuart  beckoned  covertly  to  Clara.  Willoughby 
should  have  had  something  to  say  to  him,  Dr.  Middleton 
thought :  the  position  was  not  clear.  But  the  situation  was 
not  disagreeable ;  and  he  was  in  no  serious  hurry,  though 
he  wished  to  be  enlightened. 

"  This,"  Dr.  Middleton  said  to  the  spinster  aunts,  as  he 
accompanied  them  to  the  drawing-room,  "  shall  be  no  lost 
day  for  me  if  I  may  devote  the  remainder  of  it  to  you." 

"  The  thunder,  we  fear,  is  not  remote,"  murmured  one. 

"  We  fear  it  is  imminent,"  sighed  the  other. 

They  took  to  chanting  in  alternation. 

"  — We  are  accustomed  to  peruse  our  Willoughby,  and  we 
know  him  by  a  shadow." 

" — From  his  infancy  to  his  glorious  youth  and  his  estab- 
lished manhood." 

"  — He  was  ever  the  soul  of  chivalry." 

"  — Duty  :  duty  first.  The  happiness  of  his  family  :  the 
well-being  of  his  dependents." 

"  — If  proud  of  his  name,  it  was  not  an  over-weening 
pride  ;  it  was  founded  in  the  conscious  possession  of  exalted 
qualities." 

"  — He  could  be  humble  when  occasion  called  for  it." 

Dr.  Middleton  bowed  to  the  litany,  feeling  that  occasion 
called  for  humbleness  from  him. 

"  Let  us  hope  !...."  he  said,  with  unassumed  penitence 
on  behalf  of  his  inscrutable  daughter. 

The  ladies  resumed  : 


4  1  1  THE  EGOIST. 

" — Vernon  Whitford,  not  of  his  blood,  is  his  brother!" 

"—A  1 1 Mind  instances!     Lsetitia  Dale  remembers  them 

better  t  ban  we." 

" — Thai  any  blow  should  strike  him!" 
" — That  anoi  her  should  be  in  store  for  him  !" 
"  —  It  seems  impossible  he  can  be  (|iiite  misunderstood!" 
"  Lei  us  hope!  .  .  .  ."  said  Dr.  Middleton. 
" — One  would  not  deem  it  too  much  for  the  dispenser  of 
idness  to  expect  to  be  a  little  looked  up  to  !" 

Wlien  he  was  a  chiid  he  one  day  mounted  a  chair,  and 
there  he  stood  in  danger,  would  not  let  us  toueh  him,  because 
he  was  taller  than  we,  and  we  were  to  gaze.  Do  you  re- 
member  bim,  Eleanor  ?  'I  am  the  sun  of  the  house!'  It  was 
inimitable !" 

-Your  feelings  ;  he  would  have  your  feelings  !  He  was 
fourteen  when  his  cousin  Grace  Whitford  married,  and  we 
ld-i  him.  They  had  been  the  greatest  friends;  and  it  whs 
Long  before  he  appeared  among  us.  lie  has  never  cared  to 
see  her  since./" 

" — But  he  has  befriended   her  husband.     Never  has  he 
failed  in  generosity.     His  only  fault  is — " 
" — His  sensitiveness.     And  that  is — " 
" — His  secret.      And  that—" 

"  —  Vnu  are  not  to  discover!     It  is  the  same  with  him  in 

manhood.     No  one  will  accuse  Willoughby   Patterne  of   a 

■iency  of  manliness  :    but  what  is  it  ? — he  suffers,  as  none 

suffer,  if  he  is  not  loved.     He  himself  is inalterably  constant 

in  affect  ion." 

hat  it  is  no  one  can  say.  We  have  lived  with  him  a  11 
his  life,  and  we  know  him  ready  to  make  any  sacrifice  :  only, 
he  does  d<  mand  the  whole  heart  in  return.  And  if  he  doubts, 
he  1  as  we  have  seen  him  to-day." 

Shattered  :  as  we  have  never  seen  him  look  before." 

"We   will   hope,"   said    \)v.    .Middleton,  this  time  hastily. 

He  I  to  say  'what  it  was  :'   he  had  it  in  him  to  solve 

perplexity  in  their  inquiry.      He  did  say,  adopting  familiar 

speech  to  suit  the  theme:  "You  know,  ladies,  we   English 

come  of  a   rough   stock.     A   dose  of  rough  dealing  in  our 

as  no  harm,  braces  us.     Otherwise  we  are  likely 

to  feel  chilly:   we  grow  too  fine  where  tenuity  of  stature  is 

)ilv  buffetted   by  gales,  namely,  in  our  self-esteem. 

ire  barbarians,  on  a  forcing  soil  of  wealth,  in  a  consei* 


THE  PATTEENE  LADIES.  445 

vatory  of  comfortable  security;  but  still  barbarians.  So, 
you  see,  we  sliine  at  our  best  "when  we  are  plucked  out  of 
that,  to  where  hard  blows  are  given,  in  a  state  of  war.  In 
a  state  of  war  we  are  at  home,  our  men  are  high-minded 
fellows,  Scipios  and  good  legionaries.  In  the  state  of  peace 
we  do  not  live  in  peace  :  our  native  roughness  breaks  out  in 
unexpected  places,  under  extraordinary  aspects — tyrannic-, 
extravagances,  domestic  exactions  :  and  if  we  have  not  Lad 
sharp  early  training  ....  within  and  without  ....  the 
old-fashioned  island-instrument  to  drill  into  us  the  civiliza- 
tion of  our  masters,  the  ancients,  we  show  it  by  running  here 
and  there  to  some  excess.  Ahem.  Yet,"  added  the  Rev. 
doctor,  abandoning  his  effort  to  deliver  a  weighty  truth 
obscurely  for  the  comprehension  of  dainty  spinster  ladies, 
the  superabundance  of  whom  in  England  was  in  his  opinion 
largely  the  cause  of  our  decay  as  a  people,  "  yet  I  have  not 
observed  this  ultra-sensitiveness  in  Willoughby.  He  has 
borne  to  hear  more  than  I,  certainly  no  example  of  the 
frailty,  could  have  endured." 

"  He  concealed  it,"  said  the  ladies.     "It  is  intense." 

"  Then  is  it  a  disease  ?" 

"  It  bears  no  explanation  ;  it  is  mystic." 

"  It  is  a  cultus,  then,  a  form  of  self- worship." 

"  Self  !"  they  ejaculated.  "  But  is  not  Self  indifferent  to 
others  ?  Is  it  Self  that  craves  for  sympathy,  love  and 
devotion  ?" 

"  He  is  an  admirable  host,  ladies." 

"  He  is  admirable  in  all  respects." 

"  Admirable  must  he  be  who  can  impress  discerning 
women,  his  life-long  housemates,  so  favourably.  He  is,  I 
repeat,  a  perfect  host." 

"  He  will  be  a  perfect  husband." 

"  In  all  probability." 

"  It  is  a  certainty.  Let  him  be  loved  and  obeyed,  he  will 
be  guided.  That  is  the  secret  for  her  whom  he  so  fatally 
loves.  That,  if  we  had  dared,  we  would  have  hinted  to  her. 
She  will  rule  him  through  her  love  of  him,  and  through  him 
all  about  her.  And  it  will  not  be  a  rule  he  submits  to,  but  a 
love  he  accepts,     If  she  could  see  it !" 

"If  she  were  a  metaphysician!"  sighed  L)r.  Middleton. 

**  — But  a  sensitiveness  so  keen  as  his  mio-ht — " 

"  — Fretted  by  an  unsympathizing  mate — " 


1  HE  EGOIST. 

«  — Tn  f!l0  end  become,  for  the  best  of  us  is  mortal — " 

M_Callons!" 

«« — He  would  feel  perhaps  as  much — " 

"—Or  more!—" 

" — He  would  still  be  tender — " 

" — But  he  might  grow  outwardly  hard!" 

Botli  ladies  looked  up  at  Dr.  Middleton,  as  they  revealed 
tin-  dreadful  prospect. 

"  It  is  the  story  told  of  ccms  !"  he  said,  sad  as  they. 

The  th  d  drooping:  the  ladies  with  an  attempt  to 

digest  his  remark;  the  Rev.  doctor  in  dejection  lest  his 
gallantry  should  no  longer  continue  to  wrestle  with  his  good 

36. 

He  was  rescued. 

The  door  opened  and  a  footman  announced: 
[r.  Dale." 

M^-  Eleanor  and  Miss  Isabel  made  a  sign  to  one  another 
of  raising  their  hands. 

They  advanced  to  him,  and  welcomed  him. 

"l',:i      b  1.  Mr.   Dale.     You   have  not  brought  us 

La  1  news  of  our  Lajtitia  ?" 

••  So  rare  is  the  pleasure  of  welcoming  you  here,  Mr.  Dale, 
that  we  are  in  some  alarm,  when,  as  we  trust,  it  should  bo 
matter  for  unmixed  congratulation." 

"  Has  Dr.  Corney  been  doing  wonders  ?" 

"I  am  indebted  to  him  for  the  drive  to  your  house, 
ladies,"  said  Mr.  Dale,  a  spare,  close-buttoned  gentleman, 
with  an  Indian  complexion  deadened  in  the  sick-chamber. 
"  It  is  unusual  for  me  to  stir  from  my  precincts." 

"The  Rev.  Dr.  Middleton." 

Mr.  Dale  bowed.     He  seemed  surprised. 

"  You   live    in   a   splendid   air,    sir,"    observed   the   Rev. 
tor. 

'•  I  can  profit  little  by  it,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Dale.  He  asked 
the  la  lies  :  "  Will  Sir  Willoughby  be  disengaged  ?" 

They  consulted :  "He  is  with  Vernon.  We  will  send  to 
him." 

The  bell  was  rung. 

"  I  have  had  the  gratification  of  making  the  acquaintance 
of  your  daughter,  Mr.  Dale,  a  most  escimable  lady,"  said  Dr. 
ton. 

Mr.  Dale  bowed.      "  She   is  honoured   by  your  praises,  sir. 


THE  PATTERNE  LADIES.  447 

To  the  best  of  my  belief — I  speak  as  a  father — she  merits 
them.     Hitherto  I  have  had  no  doubts." 

"  Of  Lastitia  ?"  exclaimed  the  ladies ;  and  spoke  of  her  as 
gentleness  and  goodness  incarnate. 

"  Hitherto  I  have  devoutly  thought  so,"  said  Mr.  Dale. 

"  Surely  she  is  the  very  sweetest  nurse,  the  most  devoted 
of  daughters !" 

"  As  far  as  concerns  her  duty  to  her  father,  I  can  say  she- 
is  that,  ladies." 

"  In  all  her  relations,  Mr.  Dale!" 

"  It  is  my  praj'er,"  he  said. 

The  footman  appeared.  He  announced  that  Sir  "Wil- 
loughby  was  in  the  laboratory  with  Mr.  Whitford,  and  the 
dour  locked. 

"  Domestic  business,"  the  ladies  remarked.  "  You  know 
Willoughby's  diligent  attention  to  affairs,  Mr.  Dale." 

"  He  is  well  ?"  Mr.  Dale  inquired. 

"  In  excellent  health." 

"  Body  and  mind  ?" 

"  But,  dear  Mr.  Dale,  he  is  never  ill." 

"  Ah  !  For  one  to  hear  that  who  is  never  well !  And  Mr. 
Whitford  is  quite  sound  ?" 

"  Sound  ?  The  question  alarms  me  for  myself,"  said  Dr. 
Middleton.  "  Sound  as  our  Constitution,  the  Credit  of  the 
country,  the  reputation  of  our  Prince  of  poets.  I  pray  you 
to  have  no  fears  for  him." 

Mr.  Dale  gave  the  mild  little  sniff  of  a  man  thrown  deeper 
into  perplexity. 

He  said :  "  Mr.  Whitford  works  his  head ;  he  is  a  hard 
student;  he  may  not  be  always,  if  I  may  so  put  it,  at  home 
on  worldly  affairs." 

"  Dismiss  that  defamatory  legend  of  the  student,  Mr. 
Dale ;  and  take  my  word  for  it,  that  he  who  persistently 
works  his  head  has  the  strongest  for  all  affairs." 

"  Ah  !     Your  daughter,  sir,  is  here  ?" 

"  My  daughter  is  here,  sir,  and  will  be  most  happy  to  pre- 
sent  her  respects  to  the  father  of  her  friend  Miss  Dale." 

"  They  are  friends  ?" 

"  Very  cordial  friends." 

Mr.  Dale  administered  another  feebly  pacifying  sniff  to 
himself. 


4  |S  THE  KGOIST. 

•    I  !"  lio  Bighed  in  apostrophe,  and   swept  his  fore- 

1       I  with  ;i  hand  seen  to  shake. 

The  ladies  asked  him  anxiously  whether  he  felt  the  heat 
of  the  room  ;  and  one  offered  him  a  smelling-bottle. 

I  [e  thanked  them.     "  I  can  hold  out  until  Sir  Willoughby 
oomi 

•■  We  fear  to  disturb  him  when  his  door  is  locked,  Mr. 
Dale;  but,  if  you  wish  it,  we  will  venture  on  a  message. 
Y,,u  have  really  no  bad  news  of  our  La-titia  ?  She  left  us 
hurriedly  this  morning,  without  any  leave-taking,  except  a 
1  to  one  of  the  maids,  that  your  condition  required  her 
inn  ■  presence." 

'•  My  condition!  And  now  her  door  is  locked  to  me!  We 
have  spoken  through  the  door,  and  that  is  all.  I  stand  sick 
and  stupefied  between  two  locked  doors,  neither  of  which 
will  open,  it  appears,  to  give  me  the  enlightenment  I  need 
more  than  medicine." 

"Dear  me!"  cried  Dr.  Middleton,  "I  am  struck  by  your 
description  of  your  position,  Mr.  Dale.  It  would  aptly  apply 
to  our  humanity  of  the  present  generation  ;  and  were  these  the 
days  when  I  Bermohized,  I  could  propose  that  it  should  afford 
me  an  illustration  for  the  pulpit.  For  my  part,  when  doors 
are  closed  1  try  not  their  locks  ;  and  I  attribute  my  perfect 
equanimity,  health  even,  to  an  uninquiring  acceptation  of 
the  fact  that  they  are  closed  to  me.  I  read  my  page  by  the 
light  I  have.  On  the  contrary,  the  world  of  this  day,  if  I 
may  presume  to  quote  you  for  my  purpose,  is  heard  knock- 
ing  at  those  two  locked  doors  of  the  secret  of  things  on  each 
side  of  us,  and  is  beheld  standing  sick  and  stupefied  because 
it  h  ■    no  response  to  its   knocking.     Why,  sir,  let  the 

world  compare  the  diverse  fortunes  of  the  beggar  and  the 
postman:  knock  to  give,  and  it  is  opened  unto  you  :  knock 
nd  it  continues  shut.     I  say.  carry  a  letter  to  your 
ed  door,  and  you  shall  have  a  good  reception:  but  there 
is  none  thai  is  handed  out.     For  which  reason  .  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Dale  swept  a  perspiring  forehead,  and  extended  his 
hand  in  supplication;  "  I  am  an  invalid,  Dr.  Middleton,"  he 
Baid.  -  I  am  unable  to  cope  with  analogies.  I  have  but 
bn  t  r  the  slow  digestion  of  facts." 
'  For  Facts,  we  are  bradypeptics  to  a  man,  sir.  We  know 
not  yet  if  nature  be  a  fact  or  an  effort  to  master  one.  The 
world  has   not  yet  assimilated  the  first  fact  it  stepped  on. 


THE  PATTERN  E  LADIES.  44fl 

"We  are  still  in  the  endeavour  to  make  good  blood  of  the  fact 
of  our  being." 

Pressing  his  hands  at  his  temples,  Mr.  Dak-  moaned  :  "  My 
head  twirls;  I  did  unwisely  to  come  out.  I  came  on  an 
impulse;  I  trust,  honourable.  I  am  unfit — I  cannot  follow 
you,  Dr.  Middleton.     Pardon  me." 

"  Nay,  sir,  let  me  say,  from  my  experience  of  my  country- 
men, that,  if  you  do  not  follow  me,  and  can  abstain  from 
abusing  me  in  consequence,  you  are  magnanimous,"  the  Rev. 
doctor  replied,  hardly  consenting  to  let  go  the  man  he  had 
found  to  indemnify  him  for  his  gallant  service  of  acquiesc- 
ing as  a  mute  to  the  ladies,  though  he  knew  his  breathing 
robustfulness  to  be  as  an  East  wind  to  weak  nerves,  and 
himself  an  engine  of  punishment  when  he  had  been  torn  for 
a  day  from  his  books. 

Miss  Eleanor  said  :  "  The  enlightenment  you  need,  Mr. 
Dale  ?     Can  we  enlighten  you  P" 

"  I  think  not,"  he  answered  faintly.  "  I  think  I  will  wait 
for  Sir  Willoughby  ....  or  Mr.  Whitford.  If  I  can  keep 
my  strength.  Or  could  I  exchange — I  fear  to  break  clown — 
two  words  with  the  young  lady  who  is,  was   .  .   .   .  Y" 

"  Miss  Middleton,  my  daughter,  sir  ?  She  shall  be  at 
your  disposition  ;  I  will  bring  her  to  you."  Dr.  Middleton 
stopped  at  the  window.  "  She,  it  is  true,  may  better  know 
the  mind  of  Miss  Dale  than  I.  But  I  flatter  myself  I  know 
the  gentleman  better.  I  think,  Mr.  Dale,  addressing  you  as 
the  lady's  father,  you  will  find  me  a  persuasive,  I  could  be 
an  impassioned,  advocate  in  his  interests." 

Mr.  Dale  was  confounded ;  the  weakly  sapling  caught  in  a 
gust  falls  back  as  he  did. 

"  Advocate  ?"  he  said.     He  had  little  breath. 

"  His  impassioned  advocate,  I  repeat  :  for  I  have  the 
highest  opinion  of  him.  You  see,  sir,  I  am  acquainted  with 
the  circumstances.  I  believe,"  Dr.  Middleton  half-turned  to 
the  ladies,  "  we  must,  until  your  potent  inducements,  Mr. 
Dale,  have  been  joined  to  my  instances,  and  we  overcome 
"what  feminine  scruples  there  may  be,  treat  the  circum- 
stances as  not  generally  public.  Our  Strephon  may  be 
chargeable  with  shyness.  Bat  if  for  the  present  it  is  incum- 
bent on  us,  in  proper  consideration  for  the  parties,  not  t/o  be 
nominally  precise,  it  is  hardly  requisite  in  this  household 
that  we  should  be.     He  is  now  for  protesting  indifference  to 

2  G 


450  TIIK  EGOIST. 

the  state.  I  fancy  we  understand  that  phase  of  amatory 
Frigidity.  Frankly,  Mr.  Dale,  I  was  once  in  my  life  myeelf 
refused  by  a  lady,  and  1  was  not  indignant,  merely  indifferent 
tu  i  he  marriage-tie." 

"  .M  v  daughter  has  refused  him,  sir?" 

"  'I  arily  it  would  appear  that  she  has  declined  the 

proposal." 

'•  He  was  at  liberty V  ...  he  could  honourably?  .  .  .  ." 

"  His  best  friend  and  nean  .  t  relative  is  your  guarantee." 

"I    know   it;  I   hear  so:  I  am  informed  of  that;  I  have 

1  of  the  proposal,  and  that  he  could  honourably  make 

it.     Still,  I  am  helpless,  I  cannot  move,  until  I  am  assured 

that   my  daughter's  reasons  are  such  as  a  father  need  not 

rline." 

"  Doos  the  lady,  perchance,  equivocate?" 

"  J  have  not  seen  her  this  morning;  I  rise  late.  I  hear  an 
astounding  account  of  the  cause  for  her  departure  from  Pat- 
terne,  and  1  find  her  door  locked  to  me — no  answer." 

"  It  is  that  she  has  no  reasons  to  give,  and  she  feared  the 
demand  fob  them." 

"  Ladies  !"  dolorously  exclaimed  Mr.  Dale. 

"We  guess  the  secret,  we  guess  it!"  they  exclaimed  in 
reply  ;  and  they  looked  smilingly,  as  Dr.  Middleton  looked. 

"She  had  no  reasons  to  giver"  Mr.  Dale  spelt  these 
words  to  his  understanding.  "  Then,  sir,  she  knew  you  not 
adverse  ?" 

'  Undoubtedly,  by  my  high  esteem  for  the  gentleman,  she 
must  have  known  me  not  adverse.     But  she  would  not  con- 
sider me  a  principal.     She  could  hardly  have  conceived  me 
nle.    I  am  simply  the  gentleman's  friend.    A  zealous 
friend,  let  me  add." 

Mr.  Dale  put  out  an  imploring  hand ;  it  was  too  much  for 
him. 

"Pardon  me;  I  have  a  poor  head.  And  your  daughter 
the  same,  sir  ?" 

•  We  will  not  measure  it  too  closely,  but  I  may  say,  my 
r  the  same,  sir.     And  likewise — may  I  not  add  ?— 
wiies." 
Mr.  Dah-  made  sign  that  he  was  overfilled.     "Where  am 
I !     And  Loetith  ref  ised  him  ?" 

"  Temporarily,  let  us  assume,  \7ill  it  not  partly  depeud 
on  you,  Mr.  Dale  i" 


THE  PATTERNE  LADIES.  451 

"  But  what  strange  things  have  been  happening  during 
my  daughter's  absence  from  the  cottage !"  cried  Mr.  Dale, 
betraying  an  elixir  in  his  veins.  "  I  feel  that  I  could  laugh 
if  I  did  not  dread  to  be  thought  insane.  She  refused  his 
hand,  and  he  was  'at  liberty  to  offer  it  ?  My  girl !  We  are  all 
on  our  heads.  The  fairy-tales  were  right  and  the  lesson- 
books  were  wrong.  But  it  is  really,  it  is  really  very  de- 
moralizing. An  invalid — and  I  am  one,  and  no  momentary 
exhilaration  will  be  taken  for  the  contrary — clings  to  the 
idea  of  stability,  order.  The  slightest  disturbance  of  the 
wonted  course  of  things  unsettles  him.  Why,  for  years  I 
have  been  prophesying  it  !  and  for  years  I  have  had  every- 
thing against  me,  and  now  when  it  is  confirmed,  I  am 
wondering  that  I  must  not  call  myself  a  fool !" 

"  And  for  years,  dear  Mr.  Dale,  this  union,  in  spite  of 
counter-currents  and  human  arrangements,  has  been  our 
Willoughby's  constant  preoccupation,"  said  Miss  Eleanor. 

"  His  most  cherished  aim,"  said  Miss  Isabel. 

"  The  name  was  not  spoken  by  me,"  said  Dr.  Middleton. 
"  But  it  is  out,  and  perhaps  better  out,  if  we  would  avoid 
the  chance  of  mystifications.  I  do  not  suppose  we  are  seri- 
ously committing  a  breach  of  confidence,  though  he  might 
have  wished  to  mention  it  to  you  first  himself.  I  have  it 
from  Willoughby  that  last  night  he  appealed  to  your  daugh- 
ter, Mr.  Dale — not  for  the  first  time,  if  I  apprehend  him 
correctly ;  and  unsuccessfully.  He  despairs.  I  do  not :  sup- 
posing, that  is,  your  assistance  vouchsafed  to  us.  And  I  do 
not  despair,  because  the  gentleman  is  a  gentleman  of  worth, 
of  acknowledged  worth.  You  know  him  well  enou/;h  to 
grant  me  that.  I  will  bring  you  my  daughter  to  help  me  in 
sounding  his  praises." 

Dr.  Middleton  stepped  through  the  window  to  the  lawn 
on  an  elastic  foot,  beaming  with  the  happiness  he  felt 
charged  to  confer  on  his  friend  Mr.  Whitford. 

"  Ladies  !  it  passes  all  wonders,"  Mr.  Dale  gasped. 

"  Willoughby's  generosity  does  pass  all  wonders,"  they 
said  in  chorus. 

The  door  opened :  Lady  Busshe  and  Lady  Culmer  were 
announced. 


2g2 


|52  IHi2  EGOIST. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE  PATH  l.M.  l.AI'll  S  :    MK.   DALE:    LADY  BUSPHE  AND  LADY 
,11.1;  :    AND  MRS.  MODNTSTUART  JENK1NS0N. 

1.  iv  BDSSHE  and  Lady  Culmer  entered  spying  to  right 
.,,,,!  f  the  sighl  of  Mr.  Dale  in  the  room,  Lady  Busshe 

murmured  to  her  friend  :  "  Confirmation  !" 

Lady  Culmer  murmured  :  "  Corney  is  quite  reliable." 

"  'I  he  man  is  his  own  best  tonic." 

"  Be  i>  invaluable  for  the  country." 

;Mi—  Eleanor  and  ISliss  Isabel  greeted  them. 

The  amiability  of  the  Pattern e  ladies,  combined  with  their 
total  eclipse  behind  their  illustrious  nephew,  invited  enter- 
prising women  of  the  world  to  take  liberties,  and  they  were 
not  backward. 

Lady  Bu'sshesaid:  "Well?  the  news!  we  have  the  out- 
lines. Don't  be  astonished:  we  know  the  points :  we  have 
rd  the  gun.  I  could  have  told  you  as  much  yesterday. 
I  pit.  And  I  guessed  it  the  day  before.  Oh!  I  do  believe 
in  fatalities  now.  Lady  Calmer  and  I  agree  to  take  that 
view  :  it  is  the  simplest.  Well,  and  are  you  satistied,  my 
dear 

The  ladies  grimaced  interrogatively.     "With  what?" 

"  With  it  !  with  all  !  with  her!   with  him!" 
or  Willoughb; 

"  Can  it  be  possible  that  they  require  a  dose  of  Corney  ?" 
1  ihe  remarked  to  Lady  Culmer. 

1  They  play  discretion  to  perfection,"  said  Lady  Culmer. 
'"  But,  my  dears,  we  are  in  the  secret." 

•  How  did  she  behave  r"  whispered  Lady  Pusshe.  "No 
high  flights  and  flutters,  I  do  hope.  She  was  well-connected, 
they  say;  though  I  don't  comprehend  what  they  mean  by  a 
line  of  scholars — one  thinks  of  a  row  of  pinafores  :  and  she 
pretty.  Thai  is  well  enough  at  the  start.  It  never  will 
stand  againsl  brains.  He  had  the  two  in  the  house  to  con- 
tract them,  and  ....  the  result!  A  young  woman  with 
'  us — in  a  housi  beats  all  your  Beauties.  Lady  Culmer 
and   I  have  determined  on  that   view.     He  thought  her  a 


A  GENERAL  ASSEMBLY.  453 

delightful  partner  for  a  dance,  and  found  her  rather  tiresome 
at  the  end  of  the  gallopade.  I  saw  it  yesterday,  clear  as 
daylight.  She  did  not  understand  him,  and  he  did  under- 
stand her.     That  will  be  oar  report." 

"  She  is  young  :  she  will  learn,"  said  the  ladies,  uneasily, 
but  in  total  ignorance  of  her  meaning. 

"  And  you  are  charitable,  and  always  were.  I  remember 
you  had  a  good  word  for  that  girl  Durham." 

Lady  Busshe  crossed  the  room  to  Mr.  Dale,  who  was 
turning  over  leaves  of  a  grand  book  of  the  heraldic  devices 
of  our  great  Families. 

"  Study  it,"  she  said,  "  study  it,  my  dear  Mr.  Dale ;  you 
are  in  it,  by  right  of  possessing  a  clever  and  accomplished 
daughter.  At  page  300  you  will  find  the  Patterne  crest. 
And  mark  me,  she  will  drag  you  into  the  Peerage  before  she 
has  done — relatively,  you  know.  Sir  Willoughby  and  wife 
■will  not  be  contented  to  sit  down  and  manage  the  estates. 
Has  not  Laetitia  immense  ambition  ?  And  very  creditable, 
I  say." 

Mr.  Dale  tried  to  protest  something.  He  shut  the  book, 
examined  the  binding,  flapped  the  cover  with  a  finger,  hoped 
her  ladyship  was  in  good  health,  alluded  to  his  own  and  the 
strangeness  of  the  bird  out  of  the  cage. 

"  You  will  probably  take  up  your  residence  here,  in  a 
larger  and  handsomer  cage,  Mr.  Dale." 

He  shook  his  head.     "  Do  I  apprehend  ....?"  he  said. 

"  I  know"  said  she.  • 

"  Dear  me,  can  it  be  ?" 

Mr.  Dale  gazed  upward,  with  the  feelings  of  one  awakened 
late  to  see  a  world  alive  in  broad  daylight. 

Lady  Busshe  dropped  her  voice.  She  took  the  liberty 
permitted  to  her  with  an  inferior  in  station,  while  treating 
him  to  a  tone  of  familiarity  in  acknowledgement  of  his  ex- 
pected rise :  which  is  high  breeding,  or  the  exact  measure- 
ment of  social  dues. 

"  La?titia  will  be  happy,  you  may  be  sure.  I  love  to  see  a 
long  and  faithful  attachment  rewarded — love  it !  Her  tale 
is  the  triumph  of  patience.  Far  above  Grizzel  !  No  woman 
will  be  ashamed  of  pointing  to  Lady  Patterne.  You  are 
uncertain  ?  You  are  in  doubt  ?  Let  me  hear — as  low  as 
you  like.  But  there  is  no  doubt  of  the  new  shifting  of  the 
scene  ? — no  doubt  of  the  proposal  ?     Dear  Mr.  Dale  !  a  very 


4. "4  THE  EGOIST. 

little  1. mi. ler.    Yon  are  here  because — ?  of  course  you  wish  ta 
Sir    Willoughby.     She?      I  did  not  catch  you  quite. 
She  r  ....  it  seems,  yon  say?  .  .  .  ." 

1.  >  lv  Calmer  said  to  the  Patterne  ladies: 

'•  V.'.n  must  have  had  a  distressing  time.  These  affairs 
always  mount  up  to  a  climax,  unless  people  are  very  well 
bred.  We  saw  it  coming.  Naturally  Ave  did  not  expect 
Midi  a  transformation  of  brides:  who  could?  If  I  had 
Laid  myself  down  on  my  back  to  think,  I  should  have  had  it. 
I  am  unerring  when  I  set  to  speculating  on  my  back.  One 
is  cooler  :  ideas  come;  they  have  not  to  be  forced.  That  is 
why  1  am  brighter  on.  a  dull  winter  afternoon,  on  the  sofa, 
le  my  tea-service,  than  at  any  other  season.  However, 
your  trouble  is  over.     When  did  the  Middletons  leave  ?" 

"  The  .Middletons  leave  ?"  said  the  ladies. 

u  Dr.  Middleton  and  his  daughter." 

"  They  have  not  left  us." 

"The  Middletons  are  here?" 

"  Thej  are.  here,  yes.    Why  shouldthey  have  left  Patterne  ?" 

"Why?" 

"  Yes.     They  are  likely  to  stay  some  days  longer." 

"  ( ; Iness  !" 

"  There  is  no  ground  for  any  report  to  the  contrary,  Lady 
Culm  ■!•." 

"No  ground!" 

Lady  Culmer  called  out  to  Lady  Bnsshe. 

A  cry  canre  back  from  that  startled  dame. 

"  She  has  refused  him!" 

"Who?" 

"fi  i   has!" 

"  She  ?— Sir  Willonghby  ?" 

"  Ri  'used! — declines  the  honour." 

"Oh!  never!  No,  that  carries  the  incredible  beyond 
romance!     Bui  is  he  perfectly  at  .  .  .  .  ?" 

"  Quite,  it  seems.  And  she  was  asked  in  due  form  and 
refused." 

>id  ao  again!" 

"  My  dear,  I  have  it  from  Mr.  Dale." 
Mr.  Dale,  what  can  be  the  signification  of  her  conduct !" 

"Indeed,  Lady  Culmer,"  said  Mr.  Dale,  not  unpleasantly 
agitated  by  the  interest  he  excited,  in  spite  of  his  astonish- 
ment at  a  public  discussion  of  the  matter  in  this  house,  "  I 


A  GENERAL  ASSEMBLY.  455 

am  in  the  dark.  Her  father  should  know,  but  I  do  not. 
Her  door  is  locked  to  me ;  I  have  not  seen  her.  I  am  abso- 
lutely in  the  dark.  I  am  a  recluse.  I  have  forgotten  the 
ways  of  the  world.  I  should  have  supposed  her  father 
would  first  have  been  addressed." 

"  Tut-tut.  Modern  gentlemen  are  not  so  formal ;  they 
are  creatures  of  impulse  and  take  a  pride  in  it.  He  spoke. 
We  settle  that.  But  where  did  you  get  this  tale  of  a 
refusal  ?" 

"  I  have  it  from  Dr.  Middleton." 

"  From  Dr.  Middleton!"  shouted  Lady  Busshe. 

"  The  Middletons  are  here,"  said  Lady  Culmer. 

"What  whirl  are  we  in  ?"  Lady  Busshe  got  up,  ran  two 
or  three  steps  and  seated  herself  in  another  chair.  "  Oh ! 
do  let  us  proceed  upon  system.  If  not,  we  shall  presently 
be  rageing;  we  shall  be  dangerous.  The  Middletons  are 
here,  and  Dr.  Middleton  himself  communicates  to  Mr.  Dale 
that  La^titia  Dale  has  refused  the  hand  of  Sir  Willonghby, 
who  is  ostensibly  engaged  to  his  own  daughter !  And  pray, 
Mr.  Dale,  how  did  Dr.  Middleton  speak  of  it  ?  Compose 
yourself  ;  there  is  no  violent  hurry,  though  our  sympathy 
with  you  and  our  interest  in  all  the  parties  does  perhaps 
agitate  us  a  little.     Quite  at  your  leisure — speak  !" 

"  Madam  ....  Lady  Busshe."  Mr.  Dale  gulped  a  ball 
in  his  throat.  "I  see  no  reason  why  I  should  not  speak.  I 
do  not  see  how  I  can  have  been  deluded.  The  Miss  Pat- 
ternes  heard  him.  Dr.  Middleton  began  upon  it,  not  I.  I 
was  unaware,  when  I  came,  that  it  was  a  refusal.  I  had 
been  informed  that  there  was  a  proposal.  My  authority 
for  the  tale  was  positive.  The  object  of  my  visit  was  to 
assure  myself  of  the  integrity  of  my  daughter's  conduct. 
She  had  always  the  highest  sense  of  honour.  But  passion 
is  known  to  mislead,  and  there  was  this  most  strange  report. 
I  feared  that  our  humblest  apologies  were  due  to  Dr.  Mid- 
dleton and  his  (laughter.  I  knowr  the  charm  Lajtitia  can 
exercise.  Madam,  in  the  plainest  language,  without  a  pos- 
sibility of  my  misapprehending  him,  Dr.  Middleton  spoke  of 
himself  as  the  advocate  of  the  suitor  for  my  daughter's 
hand.  I  have  a  poor  head.  I  supposed  at  once  an  amicable 
rupture  between  Sir  Willoughby  and  Miss  Middleton,  or 
that  the  version  which  had  reached  me  of  their  engagement 
was    not  strictly  accurate.     My   head   is    weak.     Dr.  Mid' 


456  TITE  EGOIST. 

dleton's  language  b  trying  to  a  bead  like  mine;  but  I  can 
Bpeak  positively  on  the  essential  points:  be  spoke  of  himself 
;i>  ready  to  be  the  impassioned  advocate  of  the  suitor  for 
my  daughter's  hand.  Those  were  his  words.  I  understood 
him  i"  entreat  me  to  intercede  with  her.  Nay,  the  name 
\.:1,  mentioned.  There  was  no  concealment.  I  am  certain 
there  could  not  be  a  misapprehension.  And.  my  feelings 
touched  by  his  anxiety  for  Sir  Willoughby's  happiness. 
]  attributed  it  to  a  sentiment  upon  which  I  need  not  dwell. 
Impassioned  advocate,  he  said." 

"We  are  in  a  perfect  maelstrom!"  cried  Lady  Busshe, 
turning  to  everybody. 

"  It  is  a  complete  hurricane!"  cried  Lady  Culmer. 

A  lighi  broke  over  the  faces  of  the  Patterne  ladies.  They 
exchanged  it  with  one  another. 

They  had  been  so  shocked  as  to  be  almost  offended  by 
Lady  Busshe,  but  their  natural  gentleness  and  habitual 
submission  rendered  them  unequal  to  the  task  of  checking 

her. 

"  Is  it  nof,"  said  Miss  Eleanor,  "  a  misunderstanding  that 
a  change  of  names  will  rectify  ?" 

"  This  is  by  no  means  the  first  occasion,"  said  Miss  Isabel, 
"th.it  Willoughby  has  pleaded  for  his  eousin  Vernon." 

'•  We  deplore  extremely  the  painful  error  into  which  Mr. 
I  >ale  has  fallen." 

"  It  springs,  we  now  perceive,  from  an  entire  misappre- 
hension of   Dr.  Middleton's." 

"  Vernon  was  in  his  mind.     It  was  clear  to  us." 

"Impossible  that  it  could  have  been  Willoughby!" 

"  Yoi  i  see  the  Impossibility,  the  error !" 

"And  the  Middletons  here!"  said  Lady  Busshe.  "Oh! 
if  we  leave  unilluminated  we  shall  be  the  laughing-stock  of 
the  county.  -Mr.  Dale,  please,  wake  up.  Do  you  see  P  You 
may  have  been  mistaken." 

•  La  ly  Busshe,"  he  woke  up ;  "I  may  have  mistaken  Dr. 

Middletoti  ;   he  has  a  language  that  I  can  compare  only  to 

riew-day  of  the  field  forces.     But  I  have  the  story  on 

authority   that  I   cannot    question:    it  is    confirmed  by   my 

liter's   unexampled    behaviour.     And  if  I  live  through 

this  day  1  shall  lo  ik  about  me  as  a  ghost  to-morrow." 

I1    ii-    Mr.    Dale!"     said     the     Patterne    ladies    compas- 

5101 


A  GENERAL  ASSEMBLY.  457 

Lady  Busshe  murmured  to  them  :  "  You  know  the  two 
did  not  agree  ;  they  did  not  get  on  :  I  saw  it ;  I  predicted 
it." 

"  She  will  understand  him  in  time,"  said  they. 

"Never.  And  my  belief  is,  they  have  parted  by  consent, 
and  Letty  Dale  wins  the  day  at  last.  Yes,  now  I  do  believe 
it." 

The  ladies  maintained  a  decided  negative,  but  they  knew 
too  much  not  to  feel  perplexed,  and  they  betrayed  it,  though 
they  said  :  "  Dear  Lady  Busshe  !  is  it  credible,  in  decency  ?" 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Mountstuart !"  Lady  Busshe  invoked  her 
great  rival  appearing  among  them  :  "  You  come  most  oppor- 
tunely ;  we  are  in  a  state  of  inextricable  confusion  :  we  are 
bordering  on  frenzy.  You,  and  none  but  you,  can  help  us. 
You  know,  you  always  know;  we  hang  on  you.  Is  there 
any  truth  in  it  ?  a  particle  ?" 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  seated  herself  regally.  "Ah!' Mr. 
Dale  !"  she  said,  inclining  to  him.  "  Yes,  dear  Lady  Busshe, 
there  is  a  particle." 

"  Now,  do  not  roast  us  !  You  can  ;  you  have  the  art.  I 
have  the  whole  story.  That  is,  I  have  a  part.  I  mean,  I 
have  the  outlines.  I  cannot  be  deceived,  but  you  can  fill 
them  in,  I  know  you  can.  I  saw  it  yesterday.  Now,  tell 
us,  tell  us.  It  must  be  quite  true  or  utterly  false.  Which 
is  it  ?" 

"  Be  precise." 

"  His  fatality  !  you  called  her.  Yes,  I  was  sceptical.  But 
here  we  have  it  all  come  round  again,  and  if  the  tale  is  true, 
I  shall  own  you  infallible.     Has  he  ? — and  she  ?" 

"Both." 

"And  the  Middletons  here?  They  have  not  gone ;  they 
keep  the  field.  And  more  astounding,  she  refuses  him  ! 
And  to  add  to  it,  Dr.  Middleton  intercedes  with  Mr.  Dale 
for  Sir  Willoughby  !" 

"  Dr.  Middleton  intercedes  !"  This  was  rather  astonishing 
to  Mrs.  Mountstuart. 

"For  Vernon,"  Miss  Eleanor  emphasized. 

"  For  Vernon  Whitford,  his  cousin,"  said  Miss  Isabel,  still 
more  emphatically. 

"  Who,"  said  Mrs.  Mountstuart,  with  a  sovereign  lift  and 
turn  of  her  head,  "  speaks  of  a  refusal  ?" 

"  I  have  it  from  Mr.  Dale,"  said  Ladv  Busshe. 

a/ 


THE  EGOIST. 

•■  I  had  it,  T  thought,  distinctly  from  Dr.  Middleton,"  said 
Mr.  Da 

"Thai  Willoughby  proposed  to  Laetitia  for  his  cousin 
\  ■  .  Dr.  Middleton  meant,"  said  Miss  Eleanor. 

Her  sister  followed:    "Hence  this   really  ridiculous  mis- 
eption  !-         I  indeed,"  she  added,  for  balm  to  Mr.  Dale. 
'•  Willoughby  was  Vernon's  proxy.     His  cousin,  if  not  his 
first,  is  ever  the  second  thought  with  him." 

'■  Mm  can  we  continue?  .  .  .  ." 

'•  Such  a,  discussion  !" 

Mrs.  Monntstnart  gave  them  a  judicial  hearing.  They 
were  regarded  in  the  county  as  the  most  indulgent  of  non- 
entities,  and  she  as  little  as  Lady  Busshe  was  restrained 
I       a  the  bnrning  topic  in  their  presence.     She  pronounced  : 

'■  Each  party  is  right  and  each  is  wrong." 

A  cry  :  "  1  shall  shriek  !"  came  from  Lady  Busshe. 

"  Cruel !"  groaned  Lady  Culmer. 

"Mixed,  you  are  all  wrong.  Disentangled,  you  are  each 
of  yon  right.  Sir  Willoughby  does  think  of  his  cousin 
Vernon  ;  he  is  anxious  to  establish  him;  he  is  the  author  of 
a  proposal  to  thai  effect." 

"We  know  it!"  the  Patterne  ladies  exclaimed.  "And 
La  t  it  ia  rejected  poor  Vernon  once  more  !" 

•'  Who  Bpoke  of  -Miss  Dale's  rejection  of  Mr.  Whitford  ?" 

"  [s  he  not  rejected  ?"  Lady  Culmer  inquired. 

"  It  is  in  debate,  and  at  this  moment  being  decided." 

"  Oh  !  do  be  seated,  Mr.  Dale,"  Lady  Busshe  implored 
him.  rising  to  thrust  him  back  to  his  chair  if  necessary. 
'•  Any  dislocation,  and  we  are  thrown  out  again  !  We  must 
hold  together  if  this  riddle  is  ever  to  be  read.  Then,  dear 
M  -.  Monntstnart,  we  are  to  say  that  there  is  no  truth  in  the 
other  story  ?" 

•  Vim  are  to  say  nothing  of  the  sort,  dear  Lady  Busshe." 

'•Br  mercifnl!  '  And  what  of  the  fatality?" 

'•  \>  positive  as  the  Pole  to  the  needle." 

"  Shi'  has  not  refused  him  ?" 
isk  your  own  sagacity." 

"Accepted?" 

"Wait." 

"  And  all  the  world's  ahead  of  me!     Now,  Mrs.  Mount- 
are  oracle.     Riddles,  if  you  like,  only  speak.     If 
we  can't  have  corn,  give  us  husks." 


A  GENERAL  ASSEMBLY.  459 

Is  any  one  of  us  able  to  anticipate  events,  Lady  Busshe?" 

"Yes.  I  believe  that  yon  are.  I  bow  to  yon.  I  do  sin- 
cerely. So  it's  another  person  for  Mr.  Whitford  ?  You  nod. 
And  it  is  our  Laatitia  for  Sir  Willoughby  ?  You  smile.  You 
would  not  deceive  me  ?  A  very  little,  and  I  run  about  crazed 
and  howl  at  your  doors.  And  Dr.  Middleton  is  made  to  play 
blind  man  in  the  midst  ?  And  the  other  person  is — now  I 
see  day  !  An  amicable  rupture,  and  a  smooth  new  arrange- 
ment !  She  has  money ;  she  was  never  the  match  for  our 
hero  ;  never ;  I  saw  it  yesterday,  and  before,  often :  and  so 
he  hands  her  over — tuthe-rum-tum-tum,tuthe-rum-tum-tum." 
Lady  Busshe  struck  a  quick  march  on  her  knee  :  "  Now  isn't 
that  clever  guessing  ?  The  shadow  of  a  clue  for  me!  And 
because  I  know  human  nature.  One  peep,  and  I  see  the 
combination  in  a  minute.  So  he  keeps  the  money  in  the 
family,  becomes  a  benefactor  to  his  cousin  by  getting  rid  of 
the  girl,  and  succumbs  to  his  fatality.  Rather  a  pity  he  let 
it  ebb  and  flow  so  long.  Time  counts  the  tides,  you  know. 
But  it  improves  the  story.  I  defy  any  other  county  in  the 
kingdom  to  produce  one  fresh  and  living  to  equal  it.  Let 
me  tell  you  I  suspected  Mr.  Whitford,  and  I  hinted  it  yes- 
terday." 

"  Did  you  indeed  !"  said  Mrs.  Mountstuart,  humouring  her 
excessive  acuteness. 

"  1  really  did.  There  is  that  dear  good  man  on  his  feet 
again.     And  looks  agitated  again." 

Mr.  Dale  had  been  compelled  both  by  the  lady's  voice  and 
his  interest  in  the -subject,  to  listen.  He  had  listened  more 
than  enough :  he  was  exceedingly  nervous.  He  held  on  by 
his  chair,  afraid  to  quit  his  moorings,  and  :  "  Manners  !"  he 
said  to  himself  unconsciouslv  aloud,  as  he  cogitated  on  the 
libertine  way  with  which  these  chartered  great  ladies  of  the 
district  discussed  his  daughter.  He  was  heard  and  unnoticed. 
The  supposition,  if  any,  would  have  been  that  he  was  admo- 
nishing himself. 

At  this  juncture  Sir  Willoughby  entered  the  drawing- 
room  by  the  garden- window,  and  simultaneously  Dr.  Mid- 
dleton by  the  door. 


4G0  THK  EGOIST. 

CHAPTER  XLVI. 

THl  •  OF  SIR  WILLOUGHBY's  GENERALSHIP. 

[I:  .    we  may  fear,   will  never  know  the  qualities  of 

ership  inherent  in  Sir  Willougbby  Patterne  to  fit  him  f or 
mmander  of  an  army,  seeing  that  he  avoided 
the  !  heserviceand  preferred  the  honours  bestowed 

in  hi  try  upon  the  quiet  administrators  of  their  own 

but  his  possession  of  particular  gifts,  which  are 
military,  and  especially  of  the  proleptic  mind,  which  is  the 
stamp  and  sign- warrant  of  the  heaven-sent  General,  was  dis- 
played on  every  urgent  occasion  when,  in  the  midst  of  diffi- 
culties likely  to  have  extinguished  one  less  alert  than  he  to 
I  Ltening  aspect  of   disaster,  he   had    to    manoeuvre 

himself. 

II  ■  had  received  no  intimation  of  Mr.  Dale's  presence  in 
his  house,  nor  of  the  arrival  of  the  dreaded  women  Lady 
ho  and  Lady  Culmer:  his  locked  door  was  too  great  a 
terror  to  his  domestics.  Having  finished  with  Vernon,  after 
a  tedious  endeavour  to  bring  the  fellow  to  a  sense  of  the 
•y  of  the  step  urged  on  him,  he  walked  out  on  the  lawn 
with  the  desire  to  behold  the  opening  of  an  interview  not 
proi  !  "  lead  to  much,  and  possibly  to  profit  by  its  failure. 

(Mara  had  been  prepared,  according  to  his  directions,  by  Mrs. 
atstuart  JenMnson,   as  Vernon  had  been  prepared  by 
His    wishes,    candidly    and   kindly  expressed  both  to 
on  and  Mrs.  Mountstuart,  were,    that  since  the  girl  ap- 
nclined  to  make  him  a  happy  man,   she  would 
make  one  of  his  cousin      Intimating  to  Mrs.  Mountstuart 
that    he  would  be   happier  without  her,   he  alluded  to  the 
fit  of  the  girl's  money  to  poor  old  Vernon,  the  general 
tpe  from  a  scandal   if  old  Vernon  could  manage  to  catch 
her  as  she  dropped,  the  harmonious  arrangement  it  would  be 
for  all    parties.     And  only  on  the  condition   of  her  taking 
ion,  would  he  consent  to  give  her  up.     This  he  said  im- 
peratively:  adding,  that  such  was  the  meaning  of  the  news  v 
she    had    received    relating   to    Lsetitia   Dale.      From  what 
quarter  had  she  received  it?  he  asked.     She  shuffled  in  her 
ly,  made  a  gesture  to  Bignify  that  it  was  in  the  air,  nni- 
d  fell  upon  the  proposed  arrangement.     He  would 


sir  willoughby's  generalship.  461 

listen  to  none  of  Mrs.  Mountstuart's  woman-of-the-world 
instances  of  the  folly  of  pressing  it  npon  a  girl  who  had 
shown  herself  a  girl  of  spirit.  She  foretold  the  failure.  He 
would  not  be  advised:  he  said:  "It  is  my  scheme;"  and 
perhaps  the  look  of  mad  benevolence  about  it  induced  the 
lady  to  try  whether  there  was  a  chance  that  it  would  hit  the 
madness  in  our  nature,  and  somehow  succeed  or  lead  to  a 
pacification.  Sir  Willoughby  condescended  to  arrange 
tilings  thus  for  Clara's  good;  he  would  then  proceed  to 
realize  his  own.  Such  was  the  face  he  put  upon  it.  We  can 
wear  what  appearance  we  please  before  the  world  until  we  are 
found  out,  nor  is  the  world's"  praise  knocking  upon  hollow- 
ness  always  hollow  music  ;  but  Mrs.  Mountstuart's  laudation 
of  his  kindness  and  simplicity  disturbed  him ;  for  though  he 
had  recovered  from  his  rebuff  enough  to  imagine  that  La?titia 
could  not  refuse  him  under  reiterated  pressure,  he  had  let  it 
be  supposed  that  she  was  a  submissive  handmaiden  throb- 
bing for  her  elevation ;  and  Mrs.  Mounstuart's  belief  in  it 
afflicted  his  recent  bitter  experience  \  his  footing  was  not 
perfectly  secure.  Besides,  assuming  it  to  be  so,  he  con- 
sidered the  sort  of  prize  he  had  Avon ;  and  a  spasm  of  down- 
right hatred  of  a  world  for  which  we  make  mighty  sacrifices 
to  be  repaid  in  a  worn,  thin,  comparatively  valueless  coin, 
troubled  his  counting  of  his  gains.  Laetitia,  it  was  true,  had 
not  passed  through  other  hands  in  coming  to  him,  as  Vernon 
would  know  it  to  be  Clara's  case:  time  only  had  worn  her: 
but  the  comfort  of  the  reflection  was  annoyed  by  the  physical 
contrast  of  the  two.  Hence  an  unusual  melancholy  in  his 
tone  that  Mrs.  Mountstuart  thought  touching.  It  had  the 
scenic  effect  on  her  which  greatly  contributes  to  delude  the 
wits.  She  talked  of  him  to  Clara  as  being  a  man  who  had 
revealed  an  unsuspected  depth. 

Vernon  took  the  communication  curiously.  He  seemed 
readier  to  be  in  love  with  his  benevolent  relative  than  with 
the  lady.  He  was  confused,  undisguisedly  moved,  said  the 
plan  was  impossible,  out  of  the  question,  but  thanked  Wil- 
loughby for  the  best  of  intentions,  thanked  him  warmly. 
After  saying  that  the  plan  was  impossible,  the  comical 
fellow  allowed  himself  to  be  pushed  forth  on  the  lawn  to  see 
how  Miss  Middleton  might  have  come  out  of  her  interview 
with  Mrs.  Mountstuart.  Willoughby  observed  Mrs.  Mount- 
stuart meet  him,  usher  him  to  the  place  she  had  quitted 


Til  0I8T. 

and  return  to  the  open  turf-spaces.     Tie 
• 
will  listen,"    Mrs.    Mountstuart   said:    ''she    li 
tfi  h  in.  thinks  he  is  a  \n-y  sincere  friend,  clever, 

ir,  and  a  g 1    mountaineer;  and  thinks  yon  mean 

So  much  I  have  impressed  on  her,  but  I  have 
much  for  .M  r.  Whil  ford." 

a,"  said  Willonghby,  snatching  at 
s  the  death-blow  to  his  friend  I  torace. 

tits  to  listen,  because  yon  have  arranged  it  so 
r  it  Rhe  declined  she  would  be  rather  a  savage." 
••  Y..U  think  it  will  have  ao  result?" 
1  •  None  ;  1 1  all." 
"  Her  listening  will  do." 

■  be  sal  isfied  with  it." 
"We  Bhall  Bei 

'■  •  Anything  for  pence,'  she  says:  and  I  don't  sny  that  a 
an   with   a  tongue  would  not  have  a  chance.     She 

■  ■  you." 
;  Vernon  has  no  tongue  for  women,  poor  fellow!  You 
will  have  as  1"'  spider  or  fly,  and  if  a  man  can'l  spin  a  v.  eb, 
;ill  he  can  hope  is  do!  to  be  caught  in  one.  She  knows  bis 
history  too,  and  thai  won't  be  in  his  favour.  How  did  she 
look  when  yon  lefi  I  hem  r" 

"No!  so  bright:  like  a  bit  of  china  that   winds  dusting. 
looked  :i  trifle  gauche,  it  si  ruck  me;  more  like  a  country 
girl    with    the   hoyden   taming   in    her   than   the  well-bred 
tare  she  is.     J  did  Tint  suspect  her  to  have  feeling.    You 
mber,  Sir  Willonghby,  that  she  has  obeyed  your 
done  her  atmost:  I  do  think  we  may  say  she  has 
me  amends:  and  if  she  is  to  blame  she  repents,  and 
will  not  insisl  too  far." 
H  I  do  insist,        id  he. 
u  B  at,  Inn  a  t  •,  pant !" 

"  Well,  well."     He  did  aol  dislike  the  character. 
Th  ceived   Dr.  Middleton   wandering  over  the  lawn, 

and   Willonghby   went    to  him    to    put    him  on   the  wrong 
::     Mrs.    Monntstuarl     swept    into    the    drawing-room. 
Willonghby  quitted   the    Rev.   doctor,  and  hung  about  the 
here  he  supposed  his  pair  of  dupes  had  by  this  time 
(  ermutnally:-    or  whal  if  they  had  found  the 

•   harmony  P     He  could   bear  that,  just  bear  it.    H« 


BIR  WILLOUGHBY'S  GENERALSHIP.  463 

rounded  the  shrubs,  and  behold,  both  had  vanished.  The 
trellis  decorated  emptiness.  His  idea  was,  that  they  had 
soon  discovered  their  inability  to  be  turtles  :  and  desiring 
not  to  lose  a  moment  Avhile  Clara  was  fretted  by  the  scene, 
he  rushed  to  the  drawing-room  with  the  hope  of  lighting  on 
her  there,  getting  her  to  himself,  and  finally,  urgently, 
passionately  offering  her  the  sole  alternative  of  what  she 
had  immediately  rejected.  Why  had  he  not  used  passion 
before,  instead  of  limping  crippled  between  temper  and 
policy  ?  He  was  capable  of  it :  as  soon  as  imagination  in 
him  conceived  his  personal  feelings  unwounded  and  unim- 
perilled,  the  might  of  it  inspired  him  with  heroical  con- 
fidence, and  Clara  grateful,  Clara  softly  moved,  led  him  to 
think  of  Clara  melted.  Thus  anticipating  her  he  burst  into 
the  room. 

One  step  there  warned  him  that  he  was  in  the  jaws  of  the 
world.  We  have  the  phrase,  that  a  man  is  himself,  under 
certain  trying  circumstances.  There  is  no  need  to  say  it  of 
Sir  Willoughby :  he  was  thrice  himself  when  danger  me- 
naced, himself  inspired  him.  He  could  read  at  a  single 
glance  the  Polyphemus  eye  in  the  general  head  of  a  com- 
pany. Lady  Busshe,  Lady  Culmer,  Mrs.  Mountstuart,  Mr. 
Dale,  had  a  similarity  in  the  variety  of  their  expressions 
that  made  up  one  giant  eye  for  him,  perfectly,  if  awfully, 
legible.  He  discerned  the  fact  that  bis  demon  secret  was 
abroad,  universal.  He  ascribed  it  to  fate.  He  was  in  tin.' 
jaws  of  the  world,  on  the  world's  teeth.  This  time  ho 
thought  Lastitia  must  have  betrayed  him,  and  bowing  to 
Lady  Busshe  and  Lady  Culmer,  gallantly  pressing  their 
fingers  and  responding  to  their  becks  and  archnesses,  he 
ruminated  on  his  defences  before  he  should  accost  her 
father.  He  did  not  want  to  be  alone  with  the  man,  and  he 
considered  how  his  presence  might  be  made  useful. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Dale.  Pray,  be  seated.  Is  it 
nature  asserting  her  strength  ?  or  the  efficacy  of  medicine  ? 
I  fancy  it  can"t  be  both.  You  have  brought  us  back  your 
daughter  ?" 

Mr.  Dale  sank  into  a  chair,  unable  to  resist  the  hand 
forcing  him. 

"No,  Sir  Willoughby,  no.     I  have  not;  I  have  not  seea 
her  since  she  came  home  this  morning  from  Patteinc." 
"  Indeed  ?     She  is  unwell  ?" 


464  THE  EGOIST. 


u 


"  I  cannot  say.     She  secludes  herself.' 

'•  Has  Locked  herself  in,"  said  Lady  Busshe. 

Willoughby  threw  her  a  smile.     Ii  made  them  intimate. 

This  was  an  advantage  againsl  the  world,  but  an  exposure 
of  liimself  to  the  abominable  woman. 

Dr.  Middleton  came  up  to  Mr.  Dale  to  apologize  for  not 
presenting  his  daughter  Clara,  whom  he  could  lind  neither 
in  nor  out  of  the  house. 

■•  We  have  in  Mr.  Dale,  as  I  suspected,"  he  said  to  Wil- 
loughby,  "•  a  stout  ally." 

"If]  may  beg  two  minutes  with  you,  Sir  Willoughby," 
said  Mr.  Dale. 

"  Tour  visits  are  too  rare  for  me  to  allow  of  your  number- 
ing the  minutes,"  Willoughby  replied.  ""We  cannot  let 
Mr.  Dale  escape  us  now  that  we  have  him.  I  think,  Dr. 
Middleton." 

•"  Not  without  ransomv"  said  the  Rev.  doctor. 

Mr.  Dale  shook  his  head.  "  My  strength,  Sir  Willoughby, 
will  not  sustain  me  Ion-." 

"  You  are  at  home,  Mr.  Dale." 

"  Xot  far  from  home,  in  truth,  but  too  far  for  an  invalid 
beginning  to  grow  sensible  of  weakness." 

'•  Y"ii  will  regard  Patterne  as  your  home,  Mr.  Dale," 
Willoughby  repeated  for  the  world  to  hear. 

"Unconditionally?"  Dr.  Middleton  inquired  with  a  hu- 
morous aii'  of  dissenting. 

"Willoughby  gave  him  a  look  that  was  coldly  courteous, 
and  then  he  looked  at  Lady  Busshe.  She  nodded  imper- 
ceptibly. Her  eyebrows  rose,  and  Willoughby  returned  a 
similar  nod. 

Translated,  the  signs  ran  thus: 

' — Pestered  by  "he  Rev.  Lrentleman: — I  see  you  are.  Is 
the  story  I  have  heard  correct  ? — Possibly  it  may  err  in  a 
few  details.' 

This  was  fettering  himself  in  loose  manacles. 

Bui  Lady  Busshe  would  not  be  satisfied  with  the  com- 
pliment of  the  intimate  looks  and  nods.  She  thought  she 
might  still  be  behind  Mrs.  Mountstuart;  and  she  was  a 
bold  woman,  and  anxious  about  him,  half-crazed  by  the 
riddle  of  the  pot  she  was  boiling  in,  and  having  very  few 
minutes  to  snare. 

.Not  extremely  reticent  by  nature,  privileged  by   static  a. 


sir  willoughby's  generalship.  465 

and  made  intimate  with  him  by  his  covert  looks,  she  stood 
up  to  him.  "One  word  to  an  old  friend.  Which  is  the 
father  of  the  fortunate  creature  ?  I  don't  know  how  to 
behave  to  them." 

No  time  was  afforded  him  to  be  disgusted  with  her  vul- 
garity and  audacity. 

He  replied,  feeling  her  rivet  his  gyves  :  "  The  house  will 
be  empty  to-morrow." 

"  I  see.  A  decent  withdrawal,  and  very  well  cloaked. 
We  had  a  tale  here  of  her  running  off  to  decline  the  honour, 
afraid,  or  on  her  dignity  or  something." 

How  was  it  that  the  woman  was  ready  to  accept  the 
altered  posture  of  affairs  in  his  house — if  she  had  received  a 
hint  of  them  ?  He  forgot  that  he  had  prepared  her  in  self- 
defence. 

"  From  whom  did  you  have  that  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Her  father.  And  the  lady  aunts  declare  it  was  the 
cousin  she  refused  !" 

Willoughby's  brain  turned  over.  He  righted  it  for  action, 
and  crossed  thy  room  to  the  ladies  Eleanor  and  Isabel.  His 
ears  tingled.  He  and  his  whole  story  discussed  in  public  ! 
Himself  unroofed  !  And  the  marvel  that  he  of  all  men 
should  be  in  such  a  tangle,  naked  and  blown  on,  condemned 
to  use  his  cunningest  arts  to  unwind  and  cover  himself, 
struck  him  as  though  the  lord  of  his  kind  were  running  the 
gauntlet  of  a  legion  of  imps.     He  felt  their  lashes. 

The  ladies  were  talking  to  Mrs.  Mountstuait  and  Lady 
Culmer  of  Vernon  and  the  suitableness  of  La-titia  to  a 
scholar.     He  made  sign  to  them,  and  both  rose. 

"  It  is  the  hour  for  your  drive.  To  the  cottage !  Mr. 
Dale  is  ill.  She  must  come.  Her  sick  father  !  No  delay, 
going  or  returning.     Bring  her  here  at  once." 

"  Poor  man !"  they  sighed:  and  "  Willoughby,"  said  one, 
and  the  other  said  :  "  There  is  a  strange  misconception  you 
will  do  well  to  correct." 

They  were  about  to  murmur  what  it  was.  He  swept  his 
hand  round,  and  excusing  themselves  to  their  guests,  obedi- 
ently they  retired. 

Lady  Busshe  at  his  entreaty  remained,  and  took  a  seat 
beside  Lady  Culmer  and  Mrs.  Mountstuart. 

She  said  to  the  latter:  "You  have  tried  scholars.  What 
do  von  think  r" 

2h 


466  THE  EGOIST. 

"  Excellent,  but  hard  to  mix,"  was  llie  reply. 
"  I  never  make  experiments,"  said  Lady  Culrncr. 
"Someone  must!"     Mrs.   Mountstuart  groaned  over  hef 
dull  dinner-party. 

Lady  Busshe  consoled  her.  "At  any  rate,  the  loss  of  a 
scholar  is  no  loss  to  the  comity." 

"  They  are  well  enough  in  towns,"  Lady  Culmer  said. 

"And  then  I  am  sure  you  must  have  them  by  themselves." 

"  We  have  nothing  to  regret." 

"  My  opinion." 

The  voice  of  Dr.  Middleton  in  colloquy  with  Mr.  Dale 
swelled  on  a  melodious  thunder:  "  For  whom  else  should  I 
plead  as  the  passionate  advocate  I  proclaimed  myself  to  yon, 
sir?  There  is  but  one  man  known  to  me  who  would  move 
me  to  back  him  upon  such  an  adventure.  Willoughby,  join 
me.     I  am  informing  Mr.  Dale  .  .  .   ." 

Willoughby  stretched  his  hands  out  to  Mr.  Dale  to  sup- 
port him  on  his  legs, 'though  he  had  shown  no  sign  of  a  wish 
to  rise. 

"  You  are  feeling  unwell,  Mr.  Dale." 

"Do  I  look  very  ill,  Sir  Willoughby  ?" 

"  It  will  pass.     La?titia  will  be  with  us  in  twenty  minutes." 

Mr.  Dale  struck  his  hands  in  a  clasp.  He  looked  alarm- 
ingly ill,  and  satisfactorily  revealed  to  his  host  how  he  could 
be  made  to  look  so. 

"  I  was  informing  Mr.  Dale  that  the  petitioner  enjoys  our 
concurrent  good  wishes  :  and  mine  in  no  degree  less  than 
yours,  Willoughby,"  observed  Dr.  Middleton,  whose  billows 
grew  the  bigger  for  a  check.  He  supj  used  himself  speaking 
confidentially.  "Ladies  have  the  trick;  they  have,  I  may 
say,  the  natural  disposition  for  playing  enigma  now  and 
again.  Pressure  is  often  a  sovereign  specific.  Let  it  be 
tried  upon  her  all  round,  from  every  radiating  line  of  the 
circle.  You  she  refuses.  Then  I  venture  to  propose  myself 
to  appeal  to  her.  My  daughter  has  assuredly  an  esteem  for 
the  applicant  that  will  animate  a  woman's  tongue  in  such  a 
case.  The  ladies  of  the  house  will  not  be  backward.  Lastly, 
if  necessary,  we  trust  the  lady's  father  to  add  his  instances. 
My  prescript  ion  is,  to  fatigue  her  negatives;  and  where  no 
rooted  objection  exists,  I  maintain  it  to  bo  the  unfailing 
receipt  for  tin-  conduct  of  a  siege.  No  woman  can  say  No 
for  ever.      The  defence  has  not  such  resources  against  even 


sir  willoughby's  generalship.  4G7 

a  single  assailant,  and  we  shall  have  solved  the  problem  of 
continuous  motion  before  she  will  have  learnt  to  deny  in 
perpetuity.     That  I  stand  on." 

Willoughby  glanced  at  Mrs.  Mountstuart. 

"  What  is  that  ?"  she  said.  "  Treason  to  our  sex,  Dr. 
Middleton  ?" 

"  I  think  I  heard,  that  no  woman  can  say  No  for  ever !" 
remarked  Lady  Busshe. 

'  To  a  loyal  gentleman,  ma'am  :  assuming  the  field  of  the 
recurring  request  to  be  not  unholy  ground  ;  consecrated  to 
affirmatives  rather." 

Dr.  Middleton  was  attacked  by  three  angry  bees.  They 
made  him  say  Yes  and  ~No  alternately  so  many  times  that 
he  had  to  admit  in  men  a  shiftier  yieldingness  than  women 
were  charged  with. 

Willoughby  gesticulated  as  mute  chorus  on  the  side  of  the 
ladies  ;  and  a  little  show  of  party  spirit  like  that,  coming 
upon  their  excitement  under  the  topic,  inclined  them  to  him 
genially. 

He  drew  Mr.  Dale  away  while  the  conflict  subsided  in 
sharp  snaps  of  rifles  and  an  interval  rejoinder  of  a  cannon. 

Mr.  Dale  had  shown  by  signs  that  he  was  growing  fretfully 
restive  under  his  burden  of  doubt. 

"  Sir  Willoughby,  I  have  a  question.  I  beg  you  to  lead 
me  where  I  may  ask  it.     I  know  my  head  is  weak." 

"  Mr.  Dale,  it  is  answered  when  I  say  that  my  house  is 
your  home,  and  that  Lostitia  will  soon  be  with  us." 

"  Then  this  report  is  true  !" 

"  I  know  nothing  of  reports.     You  are  answered." 

"  Can  my  daughter  be  accused  of  any  shadow  of  falseness, 
dishonourable  dealing  ?" 

"  As  little  as  I." 

Mr.  Dale  scanned  his  face.     He  saw  no  shadow. 

"  For  I  should  go  to  my  grave  bankrupt  if  that  could  be 
said  of  her ;  and  I  have  never  yet  felt  poor,  though  you  know 
the  extent  of  a  pensioner's  income.  Then  this  tale  of  a 
refusal ?" 

"  Is  nonsense." 

"  She  has  accepted  ?" 

'  There  are  situations,  Mr.  Dale,  too  delicate  to  be  clothed 
iD  positive  definitions." 

"  Ah,  Sir  Willoughby,  but  it  becomes  a  father  to  see  that 

2  h  2 


468  TT1K  EGOIST. 

his  daughter  is  n<>i  forced  into  delicate  situations.  I  hope 
all  is  well.  T  am  confused.  It  may  be  my  Lead.  She 
puzzles  me.  You  are  not  ....  Can  I  ask  it  here  p  You 
are  quite?  ....  Will  you  moderate  my  anxiety  My 
infirmities  must  excuse  me." 

Sir  Willoughby  conveyed  by  a  shake  of  the  head  and  a 
pressure  of  Mr.  Dales  hand,  that  he  was  not,  and  that  he 
was  quite. 

"Dr.  Middleton?"  said  Me,  Dale. 

"  He  leaves  us  to-morrow." 

"  Really!"  The  invalid  wore  a  look  as  if  wine  had  been 
poured  into  him.  He  routed  his  host's  calculations  by  calling 
to  the  Rev.  doctor.     "  We  are  to  lose  you,  sir  ?" 

Willoughby  attempted  an  interposition,  but  Dr.  Middleton 
crashed  through  it  like  the  lordly  organ  swallowing  a  tlnte. 

■•  Not  before*  I  score  my  victory,  Mr.  Dale,  and  establish 
my  friend  upon  his  rightful  throne." 

"  You  do  not  leave  to-morrow,  sir  ?" 

"  Have  you  heard,  sir,  thai  I  leave  to-morrow?" 

Mr.  Dale  turned  to  Sir  Willoughby. 

The  latter  said:  "Clara  named  to-day.  To-morrow,  1 
thought  preferal  le." 

""  Ah?"  Dr.  Middleton  towered  on  the  swelling  exclama- 

- 

tion,  but  with  no  dark  light.  He  radiated  splendidly.  "Yes, 
then,  to-morrow.     That  is,  if  we  subdue  the  lady." 

He  advanced  to  Willoughby,  seized  his  hand,  squeezed  it, 
thanked  him,  praised  him.  He  spoke  under  his  breath,  for 
a  wonder;  but:  "  We  are  in  your  debt  lastingly,  my  friend," 
was  heard,  and  he  was  impressive,  he  seemed  subdued,  and 
saying  aloud:  "Though  I  should  wish  to  aid  in  the  reduction 
of  that  fortress,"  he  let  it  be  seen  that  his  mind  was  rid  of  a 
load. 

Dr.  Middleton  partly  stupefied  Willoughby  by  his  way  of 
taking  it,  but  his  conduct  was  too  serviceable  to  allow  of 
speculation  on  his  readiness  to  break  the  match.  Jt  was  the 
turning-point  of  the  engagement. 

Lad;.    Busshe  made  a  stir. 

"  I  cannot  keep  my  horses  waiting  any  longer,"  she  sai  1, 
and  beckoned.  Sir  Willoughby  was  beside  her  immediately. 
"You  are  admirable!  perfect!  Don't  ask  me  to  hold  my 
tongue.  I  retract,]  recant.  It  is  a  fatality.  I  have  resolved 
upon  that  view.     You  could  stand  the  shot  of  beauty,  act  oi 


sir  willoughby's  generalship.  4G9 

brains.  That  is  our  report.  There !  And  it's  delicious  to 
feel  that  the  county  wins  you.  No  tea.  I  cannot  possibly 
wait.  And,  oh  !  here  she  is.  I  must  have  a  look  at  her. 
My  dear  Lsetitia  Dale  !" 

Willoughby  hurried  to  Mr.  Dale. 

"  You  are  not  to  be  excited,  sir :  compose  yourself.  You 
will  recover  and  be  strong  to-morrow  :  you  are  at  home  ;  you 
are  in  your  own  house ;  you  are  in  Ltetitia's  drawing-room. 
All  wih  be  clear  to-morrow.  Till  to-morrow  we  talk  riddles 
by  consent.     Sit,  I  beg.     You  stay  with  us." 

He  met  Laatitia  and  rescued  her  from  Lady  Busshe,  mur- 
muring, with  the  air  of  a  lover  who  says,  '  my  love !  my 
sweet!'  that  she  had  done  rightly  to  come  and  come  at  once. 

Her  father  had  been  thrown  into  the  proper  condition  of 
clammy  nervousness  to  create  the  impression.  Laatitia's 
anxiety  sat  prettily  on  her  long  eyelashes  as  she  bent  over 
him  in  his  chair. 

Hereupon  Dr.  Corney  appeared ;  and  his  name  had  a  bracing 
effect  on  Mr.  Dale.  "  Corney  has  come  to  drive  me  to  the 
cottage,"  he  said.  "  I  am  ashamed  of  this  public  exhibition 
of  myself,  my  dear.  Let  us  go.  My  head  is  a  poor 
one. 

Dr.  Corney  had  been  intercepted.  He  broke  from  Sir 
"Willoughby  with  a  dozen  little  nods  of  accurate  understand- 
ing of  him,  even  to  beyond  the  mark  of  the  communications. 
He  touched  his  patiem's  pulse  lightly,  briefly  sighed  with 
professional  composure,  and  pronounced  :  "Rest.  Must  not 
be  moved.  No,  no,  nothing  serious,"  he  quieted  Lcetitia's 
fears,  "  but  rest,  rest.  A  change  of  residence  for  a  night 
will  tone  him.  I  will  bring  him  a  draught  in  the  course  of 
the  evening.  Yes,  yes,  I'll  fetch  everything  wanted  from 
the  cottage  for  you  and  for  him.  Repose  on  Corney's  fore- 
thought." 

"  You  are  sure,  Dr.  Corney  ?"  said  Lastitia,  frightened  on 
her  father's  account  and  on  her  own. 

"  Which  aspect  will  be  the  best  for  Mr.  Dale's  bedroom?" 
the  hospitable  ladies  Eleanor  and  Isabel  inquired. 

<;  South-east,  decidedly  :  let  him  have  the  morning-sun  : 
a  warm  air,  a  vigorous  air  and  a  bright  air,  and  the  patient 
wakes  and  sings  in  his  bed." 

Still  doubtful  whether  she  was  in  a  trap,  Laatitia  whispered 
to  her  father  of  the  privacy  and  comforts  of  his  home. 


470  THE  EGOIST. 

He  replied  to  her  that  lie  thought  he  would  rather  be  in 
his  own  home. 

Dr.  Corney  positively  pronounced  No  to  it. 

La'titia  breathed  again  of  home,  but  with  the  sigh  of  one 
overborne. 

The  ladies  Eleanor  and  Isabel  took  the  word  from  TVil- 
loughby,  and  said:  "  But  you  are  at  home,  my  dear.  This 
is  your  home.  Your  father  will  be  at  least  as  well  attended 
hero  as  at  the  cottage." 

She  raised  her  eyelids  on  them  mournfully,  and  by  chance 
diverted  her  look  to  Dr.  Middleton,  quite  by  chance. 

It  spoke  eloquently  to  the  assembly  of  all  that  Willoughby 
desired  to  be  imagined. 

"  But  there  is  Crossjay,"  she  cried.  "  My  cousin  has  gone, 
and  the  boy  is  left  alone.  I  cannot  have  him  left  alone.  If 
we,  if,  Dr.  Corney,  you  are  sure  it  is  unsafe  for  papa  to  be 
moved  to-day,  Crossjay  must  ....  he  cannot  be  left." 

"Bring  him  with  you,  Corney,"  said  Sir  Willoughby  :  and 
the  little  doctor  heartily  promised  that  he  would,  in  the 
event  of  his  finding  Crossjay  at  the  cottage,  which  he 
thought  a  distant  probability. 

"  He  gave  me  his  word  he  would  not  go  out  till  my  return," 
said  La'titia. 

"And  if  Crossjay  gave  you  his  word,"  the  accents  of  a 
new  voice  vibrated  close  by,  "  be  certain  that  he  will  not 
come  back  with  Dr.  Corney  unless  he  has  authority  in  your 
handwriting." 

Clara  Middleton  stepped  gently  to  Loetitia,  and  with  a 
manner  that  was  an  embrace,  as  much  as  kissed  her  for 
what  she  was  doing  on  behalf  of  Crossjay.  She  put  h>_r 
lips  in  a  pouting  form  to  simulate  saying  :  "  Press  it." 

"  Ife  is  to  come,"  said  La'titia. 

"  Then,  write  him  his  permit." 

There  was  a  chatter  about  Crossjay  and  the  sentinel  true 
to  his  post  that  he  could  be.  during  which  La^titia  distress- 
fully scribbled  a  line  for  Dr.  Corney  to  deliver  to  him. 
Clara  stood  mar.  She  had  rebuked  herself  for  a  want  of 
reserve  in  the  presence  of  Lady  Busshe  and  Lady  Culmer, 
and  she  was  guilty  of  a  slightly  excessive  containment  when 
she  next  addres  I  Laetitia.  It  was,  like  Lretitia's  look  at 
Dr.  Middleton,  opportune:  enough  to  make  a  man  who 
watched  as  Willoughby  did,  a  fatalist  for  life:   the  shadow 


SIR  WILLOUGDEY'S  GENKRALSniP.  471 

of  a  difference  in  her  bearing  toward  Laetitia  sufficed  to 
impute  acting  either  to  her  present  coolness  or  her  previous 
warmth.  Better  still,  when  Dr.  Middleton  said:  "So  we 
leave  to-morrow,  my  dear,  and  I  hope  yon  have  written  to 
the  Darletons,"  Clara  flushed  and  beamed,  and  repressed  her 
animation  on  a  sudden,  with  one  grave  look,  that  might  be 
thought  regretful,  to  where  Willou.gh.by  stood. 
Chance  works  for  us  when  we  are  good  captains. 
Willoughby's  pride  was  high,  though  he  knew  himself  to 
be  keeping  it  up  like  a  fearfully  dexterous  juggler,  and  lor 
an  empty  reward :    but  he  was  in  the  toils  of  the  world. 

"  Have  you  written  ?  The  post-bag  leaves  in  half  an 
hour,"  he  addressed  her. 

"  We  are  expected,  but  I  will  write,"  she  replied  :  and  her 
not  having  yet  written  counted  in  his  favour. 

She  went  to  write  the  letter.      Dr.  Corney  had  departed 
on  his  mission  to  fetch  Crossjay  and  medicine.    Lady  Busshe 
was   impatient  to   be  gone.      "  Corney,"  she   said  to   Lady 
Culmer,  "  is  a  deadly  gossip." 
"  Inveterate,"  was  the  answer. 
"  My  poor  horses  !" 
"  Not  the  young  pair  of  bays  ?" 

"  Luckily,  my  dear.  And  don't  let  me  hear  of  dining  to- 
night!" 

Sir  Willoughby  was  leading  out  Mr.  Dale  to  a  quiet  room, 
contiguous  to  the  invalid  gentleman's  bed-chamber.  He 
resigned  him  to  La?titia  in  the  hall,  that  he  might  have  the 
pleasure  of  conducting  the  ladies  to  their  carriage. 

"  As  little  agitation  as  possible.  Corney  will  soon  be 
back,"  he  said,  bitterly  admiring  the  graceful  subservience 
of  Loetitia's  figure  to  her  father's  weight  on  her  aim. 

He  had  won  a  desperate  battle,  but  what  had  he  won  ? 
What  had  the  world  given  him  in  return  for  his  efforts  to 
gain  it  ?  Just  a  shirt,  it  might  be  said :  simple  scanty 
clothing,  no  warmth.  Lady  Busshe  was  unbearable,  she 
gabbled  ;  she  was  ill-bred,  permitted  herself  to  speak  of 
Doctor  Middleton  as  ineligible,  no  loss  to  the  county.  And 
Mrs.  Mountstuart  was  hardly  much  above  her,  with  her  in- 
evitable  stroke  of  caricature  : — "  You  see  Dr.  Middleton's 
pulpit  scampering  after  him  with  legs  !"  Perhaps  the  Rev. 
doctor  did  punish  the  world  for  his  having  forsaken  hia 
pulpit,  and  might  be  conceived  as  haunted  by  it  at  his  heels 


472  THK  EGOIST. 

but  Willoughby  was  in  the  mood  to  abhor  comio  images :  he 
hated  the  perpetrators  of  them  and  the  grinners.  Contempt 
dt'  this  laughing  empty  world,  for  which  he  had  performed 
a  monstrous  immolation,  led  him  to  associate  Dr.  Middleton 
in  his  mind,  and  Clara  too,  with  the  desireable  things  he  had 
diced — a  shape  of  youth  and  health;  a  sparkling  com- 
panion; a  face  of  innumerable  charms ;  and  his  own  veracity; 
his  inner  sense  of  his  dignity  ;  and  his  temper,  and  the 
limpid  Frankness  of  his  air  of  scorn,  that  was  to  him  a  visage 
of  candid  happiness  in  the  dim  retrospect.  Haply  also  he 
had  sacrificed  more  ;  he  looked  scientifically  into  the  future: 
he  might  have  sacrificed  a  nameless  more.  And  for  what  ? 
he  asked  again.  For  the  favourable  looks  and  tongues  of 
these  women  whose  looks  .and  tongues  he  detested! 

"  Dr.  Middleton  says  he  is  indebted  to  me  :  I  am  deeply  in 
his  debt,"  he  remarked. 

"  It  is  we  who  are  in  your  debt  for  a  lovely  romance,  my 
dear  Sir  Willoughby,"  said  Lady  Busshe,  incapable  of  taking 
a  correction,  so  t  horonghly  had  he  imbued  her  with  his  fiction, 
or  with  the  belief  that  she  had  a  good  story  to  circulate. 

Away  she  drove  rattling  her  tongue  to  Lady  Culmer. 

"  A  hat  and  horn,  and  she  would  be  in  the  old  figure  of  a 
post-boy  on  a  hue-and-cry  sheet,"  said  Mrs.  Mountstuart. 

Willoughby  thanked  the  great  lady  for  her  services,  and 
she  complimented  the  polished  gentleman  on  his  noble  self- 
possession.  But  she  complained  at  the  same  time  of  being 
defrauded  of  her  "  charmer  "  Colonel  De  Craye  since  lun- 
cheon. An  absence  of  warmth  in  her  compliment  caused 
Willoughby  to  shrink  and  think  the  wretched  shirt  he  had 
got  from  the  world  no  covering  after  all:  a  breath  flapped  it. 

"  He  comes  to  me,  to-morrow,  I  believe,"  she  said,  reflecting 
on  her  superior  knowledge  of  facts  in  comparison  with  Lady 
Busshe,  who  would  presently  be  hearing  of  something  novel, 
and  exclaiming:  "So,  that  ia  why  you  patronized  the  colonel!" 
And  it  was  nothing  of  the  sort,  for  Mr*.  Mountstuart  could 
honestly  say  she  was  not  the  woman  to  make  a  business  of 
her  pleasure. 

"  Horace  is  an  enviable  fellow,"  said  Willoughby,  wise  in 
The  Book,  which  bids  us  ever  for  an  assuagement  to  fancy 
our  friend's  condition  worse  than  our  own,  and  recommends 
the  deglutition  of  irony  as  the  most  balsamic  for  wounds  in 
I        whole  moral  pharmacopoeia. 


SIR  WILDUGHEY  AND  HIS  FRIEND.  473 

"  T  don't  know,"  she  replied  with,  a  marked  accent  of  deli- 
beration. 

"  The  colonel  is  to  have  you  to  himself  to-morrow  !" 

"  I  can't  be  sure  of  what  I  shall  have  in  the  colonel !" 

"  Your  perpetual  sparkler  ?" 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  set  her  head  in  motion.  She  left  the 
matter  silent. 

"  I'll  come  for  him  in  the  morning,"  she  said,  and  her  car- 
riage whirled  her  off. 

Either  she  had  guessed  it,  or  Clara  had  confided  to  her  the 
treacherous  passion  of  Horace  De  Craye  ! 

However,  the  world  was  shut  away  from  Patterne  for  the 
night. 


CHAPTER  XLVIL 

SIR  WILLOUGHBT  AND  HIS  FRIEND  HORACE  DE  CRATE. 

"Willoughbt  shut  himself  up  in  his  laboratory  to  brood 
awhile  after  the  conflict.  Sounding  through  himself,  as  it 
was  habitual  with  him  to  do,  for  the  plan  most  agreeable  to 
bis  taste,  he  came  on  a  strange  discovery  among  the  lower 
circles  of  that  microcosm.  He  was  no  longer  guided  in  Ids 
choice  by  liking"  and  appetite :  he  had  to  put  it  on  the  edge 
of  a  sharp  discrimination  and  try  it  by  his  acutest  judgement 
before  it  was  acceptable  to  his  heart :  and  knowing  well  the 
direction  of  his  desire,  he  was  nevertheless  unable  to  run 
two  strides  on  a  wish.  He  had  learnt  to  read  the  world  :  his 
partial  capacity  for  reading  persons  had  fled.  The  mysteries 
of  his  own  bosom  were  bare  to  him  ;  but  he  could  compre- 
hend them  only  in  their  immediate  relation  to  the  world 
outside.  This  hateful  world  had  caught  him  and  transformed 
him  to  a  machine.  The  discovery  he  made  was,  that  in  the 
gratification  of  the  egoistic  instinct  we  may  so  beset  ourselves 
as  to  deal  a  slaughtering  wound  upon  Self  to  whatsoever 
quarter  we  turn. 

Surely  there  is  nothing  stranger  in  mortal  experience.  The 
man  was  confounded.  At  the  game  of  Chess  it  is  the  dis- 
honour of  our  adversary  when  we  are  stale-mated :  but  in 
life,  combatting  the  world,  such  a  winning  of  the  game  ques* 
tions  our  sentiments. 


474  THE  EGOIST. 

Willoughby's  interpretation  of  his  discovery  was  directed 
I  ■  pity:  he  had  no  other  strong  emotion  left  in  him.  He 
pitied  himself,  and  he  reached  t  be  conclusion  that  he  suffered 
because  he  was  active;  he  could  not  be  quiescent.  Had  it 
not  been  for  his  devotion  to  his  house  and  name,  never  would 
he  have  stood  twice  the  victim  of  womankind.  Had  he  been 
selfish,  he  would  have  been  the  happiest  of  mp-n  !  He  said  it 
aloud.  He  schemed  benevolently  for  his  unborn  young,  and 
for  the  persons  about  him :  hence  he  was  in  a  position  for- 
bidding a  step  under  pain  of  injury  to  his  feelings.  He  was 
generous  :  otherwise  would  he  not  in  scorn  of  soul,  at  the 
outset,  straight  off,  have  pitched  Clara  Middleton  to  the 
wanton  winds  ?  He  was  faithful  in  affection  :  Lastitia  Dale 
was  beneath  his  roof  to  prove  it.  Both  these  women  were 
examples  of  his  power  of  forgiveness,  and  now  a  tender  word 
to  Clara  might  fasten  shame  on  him — such  was  her  gratitude  ! 
And  if  he  did  not  marry  Lrctitia,  laughter  would  be  devilish 
all  around  him — such  was  the  world's !  Probably  Vernon 
would  not  long  be  thankful  for  the  chance  which  varied  the 
monotony  of  his  days.  What  of  Horace  ?  Willoughby 
stripped  to  enter  the  ring  with  Horace:  he  cast  away  dis- 
guise. That  man  had  been  the  first  to  divide  him  in  the  all 
but  equal  slices  of  his  egoistic  from  his  amatory  self  :  murder 
of  his  individuality  was  the  crime  of  Horace  Ue  Crave.  And 
further,  suspicion  fixed  on  Horace  (he  knew  not  how,  except 
that  The  Book  bids  us  be  suspicious  of  those  we  hate)  as  the 
man  who  had  betrayed  his  recent  dealings  with  La>titia. 

Willoughby  walked  the  thoroughfares  of  the  house  to  meet 
Clara  and  make  certain  of  her  either  for  himself  or,  if  it 
must  be,  for  Vernon,  before  he  took  another  step  with 
Latitia  Dale.  Clara  could  reunite  him,  turn  him  once  more 
into  a  whole  and  an  animated  man  ;  and  she  might  be  wil- 
ling. Her  willingness  to  listen  to  Vernon  promised  it.  "  A 
gentleman  with  a  tongue  wrould  have  a  chance,"  Mrs.  Mount- 
stuarl  had  said.  How  much  greater  the  chance  of  a  lover! 
Tor  he  had  not  yet  supplicated  her:  he  had  shown  pride  and 
temper.  He  could  woo,  he  was  a  torrential  wooer.  And  it 
would  be  glorious  to  swing  round  on  Lady  Busshe  and  the 
world,  with  Clara  nestling  under  an  arm,  and  protest  asto- 
nishment at  the  erroneous  and  litterlyunfounded  anticipations 
of  any  other  development.  Ami  it  would  righteously  punish 
Lactitia. 


SIR  WILLOUGHCY  AND  HIS  FRIEND.  475 

Clara  came  downstairs,  bearing  her  letter  to  Miss  Dar- 
leton. 

"  Must  it  be  posted  ?  "  Willougbby  said,  meeting  her  in 
the  hall. 

"  They  expect  us  any  day,  but  it  will  be  more  comfortable 
for  papa,"  was  her  answer.  She  looked  kindly  in  her  new 
shyness. 

She  did  not  seem  to  think  he  had  treated  her  contempt- 
uously in  flinging  her  to  his  cousin,  which  was  odd! 

"  You  have  seen  Vernon  ?  " 

"  It  was  your  wish." 

"  You  had  a  talk  ?  " 

"  We  conversed." 

"  A  long  one  ?  " 

"  We  walked  some  distance." 

"  Clara,  I  tried  to  make  the  best  arrangement  I  could." 

"  Your  intention  was  generous." 

**  He  took  no  advantage  of  it  ?  " 

**  It  could  not  be  treated  seriously." 

"  It  was  meant  seriously." 

"  There  I  see  the  generosity." 

Willougbby  thought  this  encomium,  and  her  consent  to 
speak  on  the  subject,  and  her  scarcely  embarrassed  air  and 
richness  of  tone  in  speaking,  very  strange:  and  strange  was 
her  taking  him  quite  in  earnest.  Apparently  she  had  no 
feminine  sensation  of  the  unwontedness  and  the  absurdity  of 
the  matter  ! 

"  But,  Clara !  am  I  to  understand  that  he  did  not  speak 
out?"   ' 

"  We  are  excellent  friends." 

"  To  miss  it,  though  his  chance  were  the  smallest !  " 

"  You  forget  that  it  may  not  wear  that  appearance  to 
him." 

"  He  spoke  not  one  word  of  himself  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Ah  !  the  poor  old  fellow  was  taught  to  see  it  was  hope- 
less— chilled.  May  I  plead  ?  Will  you  step  into  the 
laboratory  for  a  minute  ?  We  are  two  sensible  persons  .  .  •  ," 

"  Pardon  me,  I  must  go  to  papa." 

"Vernon's  personal  history  perhaps  ....?" 

"  I  think  it  honourable  to  him." 

**  Honourable  !— 'hem  !  " 


476  THE  EGOIST. 

"  By  comparison." 

"  ( lomparison  with  what  ?  " 

"With  others." 

He  drew  up  to  relieve  himself  of  a  critical  and  condem* 
natory  expiration  of  a  certain  length.  This  young  lady 
knew  too  much.     But  how  physically  exquisite  she  was ! 

"  Could  you,  Clara,  could  yon  promise  me — I  hold  to  it. 
I  must  have  it,  I  know  his  shy  tricks — promise  me  to  give 
him  ultimately  another  chance  ?  Is  the  idea  repulsive  to 
you  r 

"  It  is  one  not  to  be  thought  of." 

"  Itris  not  repulsive  ?  " 

"  Xothing  could  be  repulsive  in  Mr.  Whitford." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  annoy  you,  Clara." 

"I  feel  bound  to  listen  to  you,  Willoughby.  "Whatever  I 
can  do  to  please  you,  I  will.     It  is  my  life-long  duly." 

"Could  you,  Clara,  could  yon  conceive  it,  could  you  simply 
conceive  it ; — give  him  your  hand  ?  " 

"  As  a  friend,  Oh  !  yes." 

"  In  marriage." 

She  paused.  She,  so  penetrative  of  him  when  he  opposed 
her,  was  hoodwinked  when  he  softened  her  feelings  :  for  the 
heart, — though  the  clearest,  is  not  the  most  constant  in- 
structor of  the  head ;  the  heart,  unlike  the  often  obtuser 
head,  works  for  itself  and  not  for  the  commonwealth. 

•'  You  are  so  kind  ....  I  would  do  much  .  .  .  ."  she 
said. 

"  Would  you  accept  him — marry  him  ?     He  is  poor." 

"  I  am  not  ambitious  of  wealth." 

"  Would  you  marry  him  ?  " 

"  Marriage  is  not  in  my  thoughts." 

"  But  could  you  marry  him  ?  " 

Willoughby  expected  no.  In  his  expectation  of  it  he  hung 
inflated. 

She  said  these  words  :  "  I  could  engage  to  marry  no  one 
else." 

His  amazement  breathed  without  a  syllable. 

He  flapped  his  arms,  resembling  for  the  moment  those 
birds  of  enormous  body  which  attempt  a  rise  upon  their 
wings  and  achieve  a  hop. 

"  Would  you  engage  it  ?  "  he  said,  content  to  see  himself 
stepped  on  as  an  insect  if  he  could  but  feel  the  agony  of  his 


SIR  WILLOUGIIBY  AND  HIS  FRIEND.  477 

false  friend  Horace — their  common  pretensions  to  win  her 
were  now  of  that  comparative  size. 

"  Oh  !  there  can  be  no  necessity.  And  an  oath — no  1 " 
said  Clara,  inwardly  shivering'  at  a  recollection. 

"  But  you  could  ?  " 

"  My  wish  is  to  please  you." 

"You  could?" 

"  I  said  so." 

It  has  been  known  of  the  patriotic  mountaineer  of  a  hoary 
pile  of  winters,  with  little  life  remaining"  in  him,  but  that 
little  on  fire  for  his  country,  that  by  the  brink  of  the  precipice 
he  has  flung  himself  on  a  young  and  lusty  invader,  dedicating 
himself  exultingly  to  death  if  only  he  may  score  a  point  for 
his  country  by  extinguishing  in  his  country's  enemy  the 
stronger  man.  So  likewise  did  Willouo-bby,  in  the  blow 
that  deprived  him  of  hope,  exult  in  the  toppling  over  of 
Horace  De  Craye.  They  perished  together,  but  which  one 
sublimely  relished  the  headlong  descent  ?  And  Vernon 
taken  by  Clara  would  be  Vernon  simply  tolerated.  And 
Clara  taken  by  Vernon  would  be  Clara  previously  touched, 
smirched.     Altogether  he  could  enjoy  his  fall. 

It  was  at  least  upon  a  comfortable  bed,  where  his  pride 
would  be  dressed  daily  and  would  never  be  disagreeably 
treated. 

He  was  henceforth  Ltetitia's  own.  The  bell  telling  of 
Ur.  Corney's  return  was  a  welcome  sound  to  Willoughby, 
and  he  said  good-humouredly :  "  Wait,  Clara,  you  will  see 
your  hero  Cross  jay." 

Crossjay  and  Dr.  Corney  tumbled  into  the  hall.  Wil- 
loughby caught  Crossjay  under  the  arms  to  give  him  a  lift 
in  the  old  fashion  pleasing  to  Clara  to  see.  The  boy  was 
heavy  as  lead. 

"  I  had  work  to  hook  him  and  worse  to  net  him,"  said 
Dr.  Corney.  "I  had  to  make  him  believe  he  was  to  nurse 
every  soul  in  the  house,  you  among  them,  Miss  Middleton." 

Willoughby  pulled  the  boy  a?ide. 

Crossjay  came  back  to  Clara  heavier  in  looks  than  his 
limbs  had  been.  She  dropped  her  letter  in  the  hall-box,  and 
took  his  hand  to  have  a  private  hug  nf  him.  When  t^ey 
were  alone,  she  said :  "  Crossjay,  my  dear,  my  dear  !  You 
look  unhappy." 

"Yes,  and  who  wouldn't  be,  and  you're  not  to  marry  Sir 


•1  ,  3  THE  KflOlST. 

Willoughby  1  "  his  voice  threatened  a  cry.     "I  know  you're 
ii  it,  for  Dr.  Corney  says  you  are  going  to  leave." 

"Did  you  so  very  much  wish  it,  Crossjay  ?  " 

"I  should  have  seen  a  lot  of  you,  and  I  shan't  see  you  at 

all,  and  I'm  sure  if  I'd  known  I  "wouldn't  have ,  and  ho 

has  been  and  tipped  me  tins." 

Crossjay  opened  his  fist  in  which  lav  three  gold  pieces. 

"  Thai  was  very  kind  of  him,"  said  Clara. 

"  Yes,  but  how  can  I  keep  it  ?  " 

"  By  handing  it  to  Mr.  "Whitford  to  keep  for  yon." 

"Yes.  hut.  Miss  Middleton,  oughtn't  I  to  tell  him?  I 
mean  Sir  Willoughby." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  I,"  Crossjay  got  close  to  her,  "  why,  that  I, 
that  I — yon  know  what  you  used  to  say.  I  wouldn't  tell  a 
lie,  but  oughtn't  I,  without  his  asking  .  .  .  .and  this  moneyl 
I  don't  mind  being"  turned  out  again." 

"  Consult  Mr.  Whitford,"  said  Clara. 

"I  know  what  you  think,  though.'' 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  not  say  anything  at  present, 
dear  boy." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  with  this  money  ?  " 

Crossjay  held  the  gold  pieces  ont  as  things  that  had  not 
yet  mingled  with  his  ideas  of  possession. 

"I  listened,  and  I  told  of  him,"  he  said.  "I  couldn't 
help  listening,  but  I  went  and  told;  and  I  don't  like  being 
here,  and  his  money,  and  he  not  knowing  what  I  did.  Haven't 
you  heard  ?  I'm  certain  I  know  what  you  think,  and  so  do  I, 
and  I  must  take  my  luck,  I'm  always  in  mischief,  getting 
into  a  mess  or  getting  out  of  it.  I  don't  mind,  I  really  don't 
Mi-s  Middleton,  I  can  sleep  in  a  tree  quite  comfortably.  If 
you're  not  going  to  be  here,  I'd  just  as  soon  be  anywhere.  I 
must  try  to  earn  my  living  sonic  day.  And  why  not  a  cabin- 
boy  ?  Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel  was  no  better.  And  I  don't 
mind  his  being  wrecked  at  last,  if  you're  drowned  an  admiral. 
So  I  shall  go  and  ask  him  to  take  his  money  hack,  and  if  he 
asks  me  I  shall  tell  him,  and  there.  You  know  what  it  is: 
I  guessi  d  that  from  what  Dr.  Corney  said.  I'm  sure  I  know 
you're  thinking  what's  manly.  Fancy  mi  keeping  his  money, 
and  you  not  marrying  him!  I  wouldn't  mind  driving  a 
gh.  I  shouldn't  make  a  bad  gamekeeper.  Of  course  I 
love  boats  best,  but  you  can't  have  everything." 


SIR  WILLOUGHBY  AND  HIS  FKIEND.  479 

"  Speak  to  Mr.  Whitford  first,"  said  Clara,  too  proud  of  the 
boy  for  growing  as  she  had  trained  him,  to  advise  a  course 
of  conduct  opposed  to  his  notions  of  manliness,  though  now 
that  her  battle  was  oyer  she  would  gladly  have  acquiesced 
in  little  casuistic  compromises  for  the  sake  of  the  general 
peace. 

Some  time  later  Vernon  and  Dr.  Corney  were  arguing 
npon  the  question.  Corney  was  dead  against  the  sentimental 
view  of  the  morality  of  the  case  propounded  by  Vernon  as 
coming  from  Miss  Middleton  and  partly  shared  by  him.  "If 
it's  on  the  boy's  mind,"  Vernon  said,  "  I  can't  prohibit  his 
going  to  Willoughby  and  making  a  clean  breast  of  it,  espe- 
cially as  it  involves  me,  and  sooner  or  later  I  should  have  to 
tell  him  myself." 

Dr.  Corney  said  no  at  all  points.  "  Now  hear  me,"  he  said 
finally.  "  This  is  between  ourselves,  and  no  breach  of  confi- 
dence, which  I'd  not  be  guilty  of  for  forty  friends,  though  I'd 
give  my  hand  from  the  wrist-joint  for  one — my  left,  that's  to 
say.  Sir  Willoughby  puts  me  one  or  two  searching  interro- 
gations on  a  point  of  interest  to  him,  his  house  and  name. 
Very  well,  and  good  night  to  that,  and  I  wish  Miss  Dale  had 
been  ten  years  younger,  or  had  passed  the  ten  with  no  heart- 
risings  and  sinkings  wearing  to  the  tissues  of  the  frame  and 
the  moral  fibre  to  boot.  She'll  have  a  fairish  health,  with  a 
little  occasional  doctoring;  taking  her  rank  and  wealth  in 
right  earnest,  and  shying  her  pen  back  to  Mother  Goose. 
She'll  do.  And,  by  the  way,  I  think  it's  to  the  credit  of  my 
sagacity  that  I  fetched  Mr.  Dale  here  fully  primed,  ami 
roused  the  neighbourhood,  which  I  did,  and  so  fixed  our 
gentleman,  neat  as  a  prodded  eel  on  a  pair  of  prongs — namely, 
the  positive  fact  and  the  general  knowledge  of  it.  But  mark 
me,  my  friend.  We  understand  one  another  at  a  nod.  This 
b°y>  y°ung  Squire  Crossjay,  is  a  good  stiff  hearty  kind  of  a 
Saxon  boy,  out  of  whom  you  may  cut  as  gallant  a  fellow  as 
ever  wore  epaulettes.  I  like  him,  you  like  him,  Miss  Dale 
and  Miss  Middleton  like  him ;  and  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne 
of  Patterne  Hall  and  other  places  won't  be  indisposed  to  like 
him  mightily  in  the  event  of  the  sun  being  seen  to  shine  upon 
him  with  a  particular  determination  to  make  him  appear  a 
prominent  object,  because  a  solitary,  and  a  Patterne."  Dr. 
Corney  lifted  his  chest  and  his  finger  :  "  Now,  mark  me,  and 
verbum  sap  :    Crossjay  must  not  offend  Sir  Willoughby.      I 


4S0  TDK  I  GOIST. 

say  no  more.  Look  ahead.  Miracles  happen,  but  it's  be«t 
to  reckon  that  they  won't.  Well,  now,  and -M  i  s  Dale.  She'll 
not  he  cruel." 

"  It  appears  as  if  she  -would,"  said  Vernon,  meditating'  on 
the  cloudy  sketch  Dr.  Corner  had  drawn. 

"She  can't,  my  friend.  Her  position's  precarious;  hoi 
father  has  little  besides  a  pension.  And  her  writing  damages 
her  health.  She  can't.  And  she  likes  the  baronet.  Oh.  it's 
only  a  little  fit  of  proud  blood.  She's  the  woman  for  him. 
She'll  manage  him — give  him  an  idea  that  he  has  got  a  lot 
of  ideas.  It'd  kill  her  fattier  if  she  was  obstinate.  He  talked 
to  me,  when  I  told  him  of  the  business,  about  his  dream 
fulfilled,  and  if  the  dream  turns  to  vapour,  he'll  be  another 
example  that  we  hang:  more  upon  dreams  than  realities  for 
nourishment,  and  medicine  too.  Last  week  1  couldn't  have 
got  him  out  of  his  house  with  all  my  art  and  science.  Oh, 
she'll  come  round.  Her  father  prophesied  this,  and  I'll  pro- 
phesv  that.     She's  fond  of  him." 

"  She  was." 

"  She  sees  through  him  ?  " 

"Without  quite  doing  justice  to  him  now,"  said  Vernon. 
"He  can  be  generous — in  his  way." 

"  How  ? "  Corney  inquired,  and  was  informed  that  he 
should  hear  in  time  to  come. 

Meanwhile  Colonel  De  Craye,  after  hovering  over  the  park 
and  about  the  cottage  for  the  opportunity  of  pouncing  on 
Miss  Middleton  alone,  had  returned,  crest-fallen  for  once, 
and  plumped  into  Willoughby's  hands. 

"My  dear  Horace,"  Willoughby  said,  "  I've  been  looking 
for  you  all  the  afternoon.  The  fact  is — 1  fancy  you'll  think 
yourself  lured  down  here  on  false  pretences:  but  the  truth 
is,  I  am  not  so  much  to  blame  as  the  world  will  suppose.  In 
point  of  fact,  to  be  brief,  Miss  Dale  and  I  ....  1  never 
consult  other  men  how  they  would  have  acted.  The  fact  of 
the  matter  is,  Miss  Middleton  ....  1  fancy  you  have  partly 
guessed  it." 

"  Partly,"  said  De  Crave. 

"  Well,  she  has  a  liking  that  way,  and  if  it  should  turn 
out  strong  enough,  it's  the  besl  arrangement  I  can  think  of." 

The  lively  play  of  the  colonel's  features  fixed  in  a  blank 
inquiry. 

"  One  can  hack  a  good  friend  for  making  a  good  husband," 


SIR  WILLOUGIIBY  AND  HIS  FRIEND.  481 

said  Willoughby.  "I  could  not  break  with  her  in  the  present 
stage  of  affairs  without  seeing  to  that.  And  I  can  speak  of 
her  highly,  though  she  and  I  have  seen  in  time  that  we  do 
not  suit  one  another.     My  wife  must  have  brains." 

"I  have  always  thought  it,"  said  Colonel  De  Crave, 
glistening  and  looking  hungry  as  a  wolf  through  his  wonder- 
ment. 

"  There  will  not  be  a  word  against  her,  you  understand. 
You  know  my  dislike  of  tattle  and  gossip.  However,  let  it 
fall  on  me ;  my  shoulders  are  broad.  I  have  done  my 
utmost  to  persuade  her,  and  there  seems  a  likelihood  of  her 
consenting.  She  tells  me  her  wish  is  to  please  me,  and  this 
will  please  me." 

"  Certainly.     Who's  the  gentleman  ?  " 

"  My  best  friend,  I  tell  you.  I  could  hardly  have  proposed 
another.     Allow  this  business  to  go  on  smoothly  just  now." 

There  was  an  uproar  within  the  colonel  to  blind  his  wits, 
and  Willoughby  looked  so  friendly  that  it  was  possible  to 
suppose  the  man  of  projects  had  mentioned  his  best  friend 
to  Miss  Middleton. 

And  who  was  the  best  friend  ? 

Not  having  accused  himself  of  treachery,  the  quick-eyed 
colonel  was  duped. 

"  Have  you  his  name  handy,  Willoughby  ?  " 
"  That  would  be  unfair  to  him  at  present,  Horace — ask 
yourself — and  to  her.     Things  are  in  a  ticklish  posture  at 
present.     Don't  be  hasty." 

"  Certainly.     I  don't  ask.     Initials  '11  do." 
"You  have  a  remarkable  aptitude  for  guessing,  Horace, 
and   this   case   offers  you  no   tough  problem — if  ever  you 
acknowledge  toughness.     I  have  a  regard  for  her  and  for 
him — for  both  pretty  equally  ;  you  know  I  have,  and  I  should 
be  thoroughlv  thankful  to  bring  the  matter  about." 
"  Lordly  !  "  said  De  Craye. 
"  I  don't  see  it.     I  call  it  sensible." 

"Oh!  undoubtedly.  The  style,  I  mean.  Tolerably 
antiqiie  ?  " 

"  Novel,  I  should  say,  and  not  the  worse  for  that.  We 
want  plain  practical  dealings  between  men  aid  women. 
Usually  we  go  the  wrong  way  to  work.  And  I  loathe  senti- 
mental rubbish." 

De  Craye  hummed  an  air.     "  But  the  lady  ?  "  said  he. 

2  I 


4S2  THE  EGOIST. 

"  I  told  you,  there  seems  a  likelihood  of  her  consenting." 
Willoughby's  fish  gave  a  perceptible  little  leap  now  that 
he  had  been  taught  to  exercise  bis  aptitude  for  guessing. 

"Without  any  of  the  customary  preliminaries  on  the  side 
of  the  gentleman?  "  he  said. 

"  We  must  put  him  through  his  paces,  friend  Horace. 
He's  a  notorious  blunderer  with  women;  hasn't  a  word  for 
them,  never  marked  a  conquest." 

De  Craye  crested  his  plumes  under  the  agreeable  banter. 
He  presented  a  face  humourously  sceptical. 

"  The  lady  is  positively  not  indisposed  to  give  the  poor 
fellow  a  hearing?  " 

"  I  have  cause  to  think  she  is  not,"  said  Willoughby,  glad 
of  acting  the  indifference  to  her  which  could  talk  of  her  in- 
clinations. 

"Cause?" 

11  Good  cause." 

"Bless  us!" 

"  As  good  as  one  can  have  with  a  woman." 

"  Ah  ?  " 

"  I  assure  you." 

"  Ah  !     Does  it  seem  like  her,  though  ?  " 

"Well,  she  wouldn't  engage  herself  to  accept  him." 

"Well,  that  seems  more  like  her." 

"  But  she  said  she  could  engage  to  marry  no  one  else." 

The  colonel  sprang  up,  crying:  "  Clara  Middleton  said  it?" 
He  curbed  himself.  "  That's  a  bit  of  wonderful  com- 
pliancy." 

"  She  wishes  to  please  me.  We  separate  on  those  terms. 
And  I  wish  her  happiness.  I've  developed  a  heart  lately  and 
taken  to  think  of  others." 

"  Nothing  better.  You  appear  to  make  cock  sure  of  the 
other  party — our  friend  ?  " 

"You  know  him  too  well,  Horace,  to  doubt  his  readiness." 

"Do  you,  Willoughby?" 

"  She  has  money  and  good  looks.     Yes,  I  can  say  I  do." 

"It  wouldn't  be  much  of  a  man  who'd  want  hard  pulling 
to  that  lighted  altar!  " 

"  And  it  he  requires  persuasion,  you  and  I,  Horace,  might 
bring  him  to  his  senses." 

"Kicking,  'twould  be  1  " 


THE  LOVERS.  483 

u  I  like  to  see  everybody  happy  about  me,"  said  Wil- 
loughby, naming  tbe  hour  as  time  to  dress  for  dinner. 

The  sentiment  he  had  delivered  was  De  Craye's  excuse  for 
grasping  his  hand  and  complimenting  him ;  but  the  colonel 
betrayed  himself  by  doing  it  with  an  extreme  fervour  almost 
tremulous. 

"  When  shall  we  hear  more  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  probably  to-morrow,"  said  Willoughby.  "  Don't  be 
in  such  a  hurry." 

"  I'm  an  infant  asleep  !  "  the  colonel  replied,  departing. 

He  resembled  one,  to  Willoughby's  mind :  or  a  traitor 
drugged. 

"  There  is  a  fellow  I  thought  had  some  brains  !" 

Who  are  not  fools  to  be  set  spinning  if  we  choose  to  whip 
them  with  their  vanity !  It  is  the  consolation  of  the  great 
to  watch  them  spin.  But  the  pleasure  is  loftier,  and  may 
comfort  our  unmerited  misfortune  for  a  while,  in  making  a 
false  friend  drunk. 

Willoughby,  among  his  many  preoccupations,  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  the  effect  of  drunkenness  on  Horace 
De  Craye  when  the  latter  was  in  Clara's  presence.  He  could 
have  laughed.  Cut  in  keen  epigram  were  the  marginal  notes 
added  by  him  to  that  chapter  of  The  Book  which  treats  of 
friends  and  a  woman :  and  had  he  not  been  profoundly  pre- 
occupied, troubled  by  recent  intelligence  communicated  by 
the  ladies,  his  aunts,  he  would  have  played  the  two  together 
for  the  royal  amusement  afforded  him  by  his  friend  Horace. 


CHAPTER  XLVIIL 

THE  LOVERS. 


The  hour  was  close  upon  eleven  at  night.  Lretitia  sat  in 
the  room  adjoining  her  father's  bed-cliamber.  Her  elbow 
was  on  the  table  beside  her  chair,  and  two  fingers  pressed 
her  temples.     The  state  between  thinking  and  feeling,  when 

2i2 


484  TIIK  EGOIST. 

li  ith  are  molten  anil  flow  by  us,  is  one  of  our  nature's  inter 
missions,  coming  after  thought  has  quieted  the   fiery  nerves, 
and  can  do    no  more.     She   seemed  to   be  meditating.     She 
was  conscious  only  of  a  struggle  past. 

She  answered  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  raised  her  eyes  on 
Clara. 

Clara  stepped  softly.     "  Mr.  Dale  is  asleep  ?  " 
"  I  hope  so." 
"Ah!  dear  friend." 
La^titia  let  her  hand  be  pressed. 
"'Have  you  had  a  pleasant  evening  ?  " 
"  ^lr.  Whitford  and  papa  have  gone  to  the  library." 
"  Colonel  De  Craye  has  been  singing  ?  " 
"Yes — with  a  voice!      I   thought    of   you  upstairs,  but 
could  not  ask  him  to  sing  piano." 
"  He  is  probably  exhilarated." 
"  One  would  suppose  it :  he  sang  well." 
"  You  are  not  aware  of  any  reason  ?  " 
"  It  cannot  concern  me." 

Clara  was  in  rosy  colour,  but  could  meet  a  steady  gaze. 
"  And  Cross  jay  has  gone  to  bed  ?  " 

"  Long  since.     He  was  at  dessert.     He  would  not  touch 
anything." 

"  He  is  a  strange  boy." 
"  Not  very  strange,  La?titia." 

"  He  did  not  come  to  me  to  wish  me  good  night." 
"  That  is  not  strange." 

"It  is  his  habit  at  the  cottage  and    here;    and    he   pro- 
fesses to  like  me." 

"  Oh  !    he  does.      I    may  have  wakened  his  enthusiasm, 
but  you  he  loves." 

"  Why  do  you  say  it  is  not  strange,  Clara  ?  " 
"  He  fears  }rou  a  little." 
"And  why  should  Cross  jay  fear  me  ?  " 
"  Dear,   I    will    tell  you.      Last  night — You   will  forgive 
him,  for   it    was  by  accident :    his  own  bed-room  door  was 
locked  and  he  ran   down    to   the    drawing-room  and  curled 
himself   up   on    the   ottoman,  and    fell   asleep,  under    that 
padded    silken   coverlet  of  the  ladies — boots  and   all,  I   am 
afraid!  " 

Laetitia  profited  by  this  absurd  allusion,  thanking  Clara 
in  her  heart  for  the  refuge. 


TIIE  LOVERS.  485 

*'  He  should  have  taken  off  his  boots,"  she  said. 

"  He  slept  there,  and  woke  up.  Dear,  he  meant  no  harm. 
Next  day  he  repeated  what  he  had  heard.  You  will  blame 
him.  He  meant  well  in  his  poor  boy's  head.  And  now  it 
is  over  the  county.     Ah  !  do  not  frown." 

"  That  explains  Lady  Busshe  !  "  exclaimed  Leetitia. 

"  Dear,  dear  friend,"  said  Clara.  "  Why — I  presume  on 
your  tenderness  for  me  ;  but  let  me :  to-morrow  I  go — why 
will  you  reject  your  happiness  ?  Those  kind  good  ladies 
are  deeply  troubled.  They  say  your  resolution  is  inflexible ; 
you  resist  their  entreaties  and  your  father's.  Can  it  be 
that  you  have  any  doubt  of  the  strength  of  this  attachment? 
I  have  none.  I  have  never  had  a  doubt  that  it  was  the 
strongest  of  his  feelings.  If  before  I  go  I  could  see  you  .... 
both  happy,  I  should  be  relieved,  I  should  rejoice." 

Laatitia  said  quietly :  "  Do  you  remember  a  walk  we  had 
one  day  together  to  the  cottage  ?  " 

Clara  put  up  her  hands  with  the  motion  of  intending  to 
stop  her  ears. 

"  Before  I  go  !  "  said  she.  "  If  I  might  know  this  was  to 
be,  which  all  desire,  before  I  leave,  I  should  not  feel  as  I  do 
now.  I  long  to  see  you  happy  ....  him,  yes,  him  loo.  Is 
it  like  asking  you  to  pay  my  debt?  Then,  please!  But, 
no ;  I  am  not  more  than  partly  selfish  on  this  occasion.  He 
has  won  my  gratitude.     He  can  be  really  generous." 

"  An  Egoist  ?  " 

"  Who  is  ?  " 

"You  have  forgotten  our  conversation  on  the  day  of  our 
walk  to  the  cottage  ?  " 

"  Help  me  to  forget  it — that  day,  and  those  days,  and  all 
those  days !  I  should  be  glad  to  think  I  passed  a  time 
beneath  the  earth,  and  have  risen  again.  I  was  the  Egoist. 
I  am  sure,  if  I  had  been  buried,  I  should  not  have  stood  up 
seeing  myself  more  vilely  stained,  soiled,  disfigured — oh ! 
Help  me  to  forget  my  conduct,  Lastitia.  He  and  I  were 
nnsuited — and  I  remember  I  blamed  myself  then.  You  and 
he  are  not :  and  now  I  can  perceive  the  pride  that  can  be 
felt  in  him.  The  worst  that  can  be  said  is,  that  he  schemes 
too  much." 

"  Is  there  any  fresh'  scheme  ?  "  said  Lastitia. 

The  rose  came  over  Clara's  face. 

"  You  have  not  heard  ?     It  was   impossible,  but  it  waa 


4^6  THE  EGOIST. 

kindly  intended.  Judging  by  my  own  feeling  at  this  mo. 
inriit,  I  can  understand  his.  We  love  to  see  our  friends 
established." 

Laetitia  bowed.     "  My  curiosity  is  piqued,  of  course." 

"  Dear  friend,  to-morrow  we  shall  be  parted.  1  trust  to 
be  thought  of  by  you  as  a  little  better  in  grain  than  I  have 
appeared,  and  my  reason  for  trusting  it  is,  that  1  know  1 
have  been  always  honest — a  boorish  young  woman  in  my 
.st  njiid  mad  impatience;  but  not  insincere.  It  is  no  lofty 
ambition  to  desire  to  be  remembered  in  that  character, but 
such  is  your  Clara,  she  discovers.  I  will  tell  you.  It  is 
his  wish  ....  his  wish  that  I  should  promise  to  give  my 
hand  to  Mr.  WTiitford.     You  see  the  kindness." 

Lffititia's  eyes  widened  and  fixed  : 

"  You  think  it  kindness  ?" 

"  The  intention.  He  sent  Mr.  Whitford  to  me,  and  I  was 
taught  to  expect  him." 

"  Was  that  quite  kind  to  Mr.  Whitford  ?  " 

"  What  an  impression  I  must  have  made  on  you  during 
that  walk  to  the  cottage,  Laetitia!  I  do  not  wonder;  I 
was  in  a  fever." 

"  You  consented  to  listen  ?  " 

"  I  really  did.  It  astonishes  me  now,  but  I  thought  I 
could  not  refuse." 

"  My  poor  friend  Vernon  Whitford  tried  a  love  speech." 

"He?  no:  Oh!  no." 

"  You  discouraged  him  ?  " 

"  I  ?  no." 

"Gently,  I  mean." 

"  No." 

"  Surely  you  did  not  dream  of  trifling  ?  He  has  a  deep 
heart." 

"  Has  he  ?  " 

"  You  ask  that :  and  you  know  something  of  him." 

"  He  did  not  expose  it  to  me,  dear;  not  even  the  surface 
of  the  mighty  deep." 

Latitia  knitted  her  brows. 

"  Xo,"  said  Clara,  "  not  a  coquette  :  she  is  not  a  coquette, 
I  assure  you." 

With  a  laugh,  Laetitia  replied  :  "  You  have  still  the 
'dreadful  power  '  you  made  me  feel  that  day." 

"  I  wish  I  could  use  it  to  good  purpose  !  " 


THE  LOVERS.  487 

"  He  did  not  speak  ?  " 

"  Of  Switzerland,  Tyrol,  the  Iliad,  Antigone." 

"  That  was  all  ?  " 

"  JSTo  Political  Economy.  Our  situation,  yon  will  own,  was 
unexampled  :  or  mine  was.     Are  you  interested  in  me  ?  " 

"  I  should  be,  if  1  knew  your  sentiments." 

"I  was  grateful  to  ir  Willoui^hby :  grieved  for  Mi*. 
Whitford." 

"  Real  grief  ?  " 

"  Because  the  task  imposed  on  him  of  showing  me  politely 
that  he  did  not  enter  into  his  cousin's  ideas,  was  evidently 
very  great,  extremely  burdensome." 

"  You,  so  quick-eyed  in  some  things,  Clara  !  " 

"  He  felt  for  me.     I  saw  that,  in  his  avoidance  of  ...  . 
And  he  was,  as  he  always  is,  pleasant.     We  rambled  over 
the  park  for  I  know  not  how  long,  though  it  did  not  seem 
long." 

"  Never  touching  that  subject  ?  " 

"  Not  ever  neighbouring  it,  dear.  A  gentleman  should 
esteem  the  girl  he  would  ask  ....  certain  questions.  I 
fancy  he  has  a  liking  for  me  as  a  volatile  friend." 

"  If  he  had  offered  himself  ?  " 

"  Despising  me  ?  " 

"You  can  be  childish,  Clara.  Probably  you  delight  to 
tease.     He  had  his  time  of  it,  and  it  is  now  my  turn." 

"  But  he  must  despise  me  a  little." 

"  Are  you  blind  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,  dear,  we  both  are,  a  little." 

The  ladies  looked  deeper  into  one  another. 

"  Will  you  answer  me  ?  "  said  Lretitia. 

"  Your  if  ?  If  he  had,  it  would  have  been  an  act  of  con- 
descension." 

"  You  are  too  slippery." 

"  Stay,  dear  Lastitia.  He  was  considerate  in  forbearing  to 
pain  me." 

"  That  is  an  answer.  You  allowed  him  to  perceive  that  it 
would  have  pained  you." 

''  Dearest,  if  I  may  convey  to  you  what  I  wTas,  in  a  similo 
for  comparison:  I  think  I  was  like  a  fisherman's  float  on  the 
water,  perfectly  still,  and  ready  to  go  down  at  any  instant, 
or  up.     So  much  for  my  behaviour." 

"  Similes  have  the  merit  of  satisfying  the  finder  of  them. 


4^8  TnK  EGOIST. 

and  cheating  the  hearer,"  said  Latitia.     "You  admit  that 
your  I'  would  have  been  painful." 

"I  was  a  fisherman's  iloat  :   please,  admire  my  simile:  any 
way   you   like,  this  way  or  that,  or  so  quiet  as  to  tempt  the 
-  to  go  to  sleep.   And  suddenly  ]  might  have  disappeared 
in  the  depths,  or  flown  in  the  air.      But  no  fish  bit." 

"Well,  then,  to  follow  you,  supposing  the  fish  or  tlio 
fisherman,  for  I  don't  know  which  is  which  ....  Oh  !  no, 
no:  this  is  too  serious  for  imagery.  I  am  to  understand  that 
you  thanked  him  at  least  for  his  reserve." 

"  Yes." 

""Without  the  slightest  encouragement  to  him  to  break 
it?" 

"  A  fisherman's  float,  Laetitia  !  " 

Baflled  and  sighing,  Leetitia  kept  silence  for  a  space. 

The  simile  chafed  her  wits  with  a  suspicion  of  a  meaning 
hidden  in  it. 

"If  he  had  spoken  ?  "  she  said. 

"  He  is  too  truthful  a  man." 

"  And  the  railings  of  men  at  pussy  women  who  wind  about 
and  will  not  be  brought  to  a  mark,  become  intelligible  to 
me." 

"  Then,  Lnetitia,  if  he  had  spoken,  if,  and  one  could  have 
imagined  him  sincere  .  .  .  . 

"So  truthful  a  man  ?  " 

"I  am  looking  at  myself.  If! — why,  then,  I  should  have 
burnt  to  death  with  shame.  Where  have  I  read? — some 
story — of  an  inextinguishable  spark.  That  would  have  been 
shot  into  my  heart." 

"  Shame,  Clara  ?     You  are  free." 

"As  much  as  remains  of  me." 

"I  could  imagine  a  ceitain  shame,  in  such  a  position, 
where  there  was  no  feeling  but  pride." 

"  I  could  not  imagine  it  where  there  was  no  feeling  but 
pride. 

Laetitia  mused:  "And  you  dwell  on  the  kindness  of  a 
proposition  so  extraordinary  ! ';  Gaining  some  liyht,  im« 
patiently  she  cried  :  "  Vernon  loves  you." 

"Do  not  say  it!" 

"  I  have  seen  it." 

"  I  have  never  had  a  sign  of  it." 

"  There  is  the  proof." 


THE  LOVERS.  489 

u  When  it  might  have  been  shown  again  and  again  !  " 

"  The  greater  proof  !  " 

"  Why  did  he  not  speak  when  he  was  privileged  ? — 
strangely,  but  privileged. 

"  He  feared." 

"  Me  ?  " 

"  Feared  to  wound  you — and  himself  as  well,  possibly. 
Men  may  be  pardoned  for  thinking  of  themselves  in  these 
cases." 

"  But  why  should  he  fear  ?  " 

"  That  another  was  dearer  to  yon  ?  " 

"What  cause  had  I  given  ....  Ah!  see!  He  could  fear 
that ;  suspect  it !  See  his  opinion  of  me  !  Can  he  care  for 
such  a  girl?  Abuse  me,  Lastitia.  I  should  like  a  good  round 
of  abuse.  I  need  purification  by  fire.  What  have  I  been 
in  this  house  ?  I  have  a  sense  of  whirling  through  it  like 
a  madwoman.  And  to  be  loved,  after  it  all ! — No  !  we 
must  be  hearing  a  tale  of  an  antiquary  prizing  a  battered 
relic  of  the  battle-field  that  no  one  else  would  look  at. 
To  be  loved,  I  see,  is  to  feel  our  littleness,  hollowness — feel 
shane.  We  come  out  in  all  our  spots.  Never  to  have 
given  me  one  sign,  when  a  lover  would  have  been  so 
tempted  !  Let  me  be  incredulous,  my  own  dear  Laetitia. 
Because  he  is  a  man  of  honour,  you  would  say  !  But  are 
you  unconscious  of  the  torture  you  inflict  ?  For  if  I  am — 
you  say  it — loved  by  this  gentleman,  what)  an  object  it  is 
he  loves' — that  has  gone  clamouring  about  more  immodestly 
than  women  will  bear  to  hear  of,  and  she  herself  to  think 
of !  Oh !  I  have  seen  my  own  heart.  It  is  a  frightful 
spectre.  I  have  seen  a  weakness  in  me  that  would  have 
carried  me  anywhere.  And  truly  I  shall  be  charitable  to 
women — I  have  gained  that.  But,  loved  !  by  Vernon  Whit- 
ford  !  The  miserable  little  me  to  be  taken  up  and  loved 
after  tearing  myself  to  pieces  !  Have  you  been  simply 
speculating  ?  Tou  have  no  positive  knowledge  of  it !  Why 
do  you  kiss  me  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  tremble  and  blush  so?  " 

Clara  looked  at  her  as  clearly  as  she  could.  She  bowed 
her  head.     "  It  makes  my  conduct  worse  !  " 

She  received  a  tenderer  kiss  for  that.  It  was  her  avowal, 
and  it  was  understood  :  to  know  that  she  had  loved,  or  had 
been  ready  to  love  him,  shadowed  her  in  the  retrospect. 


TITE  EGOIST. 

Mi  !  yon   read   me  through  and   through,"  said   Clara, 
fIiM  her  for  r  whole  embr 

'  Then  there  never  wat  for  him  to  fear?"  La?titia 

whispered. 

1  her  head   more  out  of  sight.      "Not   that  my 

.  .  .  B  d  I  have  Been  it ;  and  it  is  unworth 

him.     Ami  if,  as  I  think  now,  I  could  hare  been  so  rash,  so 

ik,  wicked,  unpardonabh — Buch  thoughts  were  in  me! — 

■  hear  him  speak,  would  make  it   necessary  for  me  to 

»ver  myself  and  tell  him — incredible   to  you,  yes! — that 

while  .  .  .  .yes,    Laetitia,  all  this  is  true:  and  thinking  of 

him  as  the  noblest  of  men,  1  could  have  welcomed  any  help 

to  cut  my  knot,     go  there,"  said  Clara,  issuing  from  her  nest 

with  winking  eyelids,  "you  Bee  the  jiain  1  mentioned." 

•  Why  did  you  not  explain  it  to  me  at  once  ?  " 
"  Dearest,  I  wanted  a  century  to  pass." 

"  And  you  feel  that  it  has  passed  ?  " 

'Yes;  in  Pnrgatory — with  an  angel  by  me.  My  report 
of  the  place  will  be  favourable.  Good  angel,  I  have  yet  to 
say  Bomel  hing." 

"'  Say  it,  and  expiate." 

"I  think  I  did  fancy  once  or  twice,  very  dimly,  and  es- 
pecially to-day  ....  properly  I  ought  not  "to  have  bad  any 
idea:  bui  his  coming  to  me,  and  his  not  doing  as  another 
would  have  done,  seemed  ....  A  ercntleman  of  real  noble, 
ness  dors  not  carry  the  common  light  for  us  to  read  him  by. 
1  wanted  his  voice  ;  but  silence,  I  think,  did  tell  me  more  :  if 
a  nature  like  mine  could  only  have  had  faith  without  hear- 
ing  the   rattle  of  a  tongue." 

A  knock  at  the  door  caused  the  ladies  to  exchange  looks. 

I.    'ina  rose  as  Vernon  entered. 

'•  I  am  jnst  going  to  my  father  for  a  few  minutes,"  she 
Baid 

■•  And  I  have  just  come  from  yours,"  Vernon  said  to  Clara. 
■  <1  a  very  threatening  expression  in  him. 

The  sprite  of  contrariety  monnted  to  her  brain  to  indem- 
nify he]-  for  her  recent  self-abasement.  Seeing  the  hed-room 
door  shut  on  Lsetitia,  she  said:  "And  of  course  papa  has 
gone  to  bed  : "  implying  '  otherwise  .  .  .  .' 

•  Tea,  he  has  gone.     Ee  wished  me  well." 

;'  His  formula  of  good-night  would  embrace  that  wish." 
"And  failing,  it  will  be  good  night  for  g  »od  to  me!  " 


THE  LOVERS.  491 

Clara's  breathing  gave  a  little  leap.  "We  leave  early 
to-morrow." 

"  1  know.     I  have  an  appointment  at  Bre  ,'enz  for  June." 

44  So  soon  ?     With  papa  H" 

"  And  from  there  we  break  into  Tyrol,  an  1  round  away  to 
the  right,  Southward." 

"  To  the  Italian  Alps  !  And  was  it  assumed  that  I  should 
be  of  this  expedition  ?" 

"  Your  father  speaks  dubiously." 

"  Tou  have  spoken  of  me,  then  ?" 

"  I  ventured  to  speak  of  you.  I  am  not  over-bold,  as  you 
know." 

Her  lovely  eyes  troubled  the  lids  to  hide  their  softness. 

"  Papa  should  not  think  of  my  presence  with  him, 
dubiously." 

"  He  leaves  it  to  you  to  decide." 

"  Yes,  then  :  many  times  :  all  that  can  be  uttered.** 

**  Do  you  consider  what  you  are  saying  ?" 

u  Mr.  Whitford,  I  shut  my  eyes  and  say  Yes." 

"  Beware.  I  give  you  one  warning.  If  you  shut  your 
eyes  ....*' 

"  Of  course,"  she  flew  from  him,  "  big  mountains  must  be 
satisfied  with  my  admiration  at  their  feet." 

"  That  will  do  for  a  beginning." 

"  They  speak  encouragingly." 

"  One  of  them."     Vernon's  breast  heaved  high. 

"  To  be  at  your  feet  makes  a  mountain  of  you  ?"  said  she. 

"  With  the  heart  of  a  mouse  if  that  satisfies  me !" 

"You  tower  too  high;  you  are  inaccessible." 

"  I  give  you  a  second  warning.  You  may  be  seized  and 
lifted." 

"  Some  one  would  stoop,  then." 

"  To  plant  you  like  the  flag  on  the  conquered  peak !" 

"  You  have  indeed  been  talking  to  papa,  Air.  Whitford." 

Vernon  changed  his  tone. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  he  said  ?" 

"  I  know  his  language  so  well." 

"  He  said "  ' 

"  But  you  have  acted  on  it.'* 

"  Only  partly.     He  said -** 

'*  You  will  teach  me  nothing.** 

"  He  said  ....'* 


492  THE  EGOIST. 

"  Vernon,  no!  oh!  not  in  this  house IM 

That  supplication  coupled  with  his  nrme  confessed  the 
end  to  which  her  quick  vision  perceived  she  was  being  led, 
whirr  she  would  succumb. 

She  revived  the  same  shrinking  in  him  from  a  breath  of 
their  great  word  jet:  not  here;  somewhere  in  the  shadow  of 
the  mountains. 

But  he  was  sure  of  her.  And  their  hands  might  join. 
The  two  hands  thought  so,  or  did  not  think,  behaved  like 
innocents. 

The  spirit  of  Dr.  Middleton,  as  Clara  felt,  had  been  blown 
into  Vernon,  rewarding  him  for  forthright  outspeaking. 
Over  their  books,  Vernon  had  abruptly  shut  up  a  volume 
and  related  the  tale  of  the  house.  "  Has  this  man  a  spice  of 
religion  in  him  ?"  the  Rev.  doctor  asked  midway.  Vernon 
made  out  a  fair  general  case  for  his  cousin  in  that  respect. 
'The  complements!  dot  on  his  i  of  a  commonly  civilized 
human  creature!"  said  Dr.  Middleton,  looking  at  his  watch 
ami  ii ruling  it  too  late  to  leave  the  house  before  morning. 
The  risky  communication  was  to  come.  Vernon  was  pro- 
ceeding with  the  narrative  of  "Willoughby's  generous  plan 
when  Dr.  .Middleton  electrified  him  by  calling  out:  "lie 
whom  of  all  men  living  I  should  desire  my  daughter  to 
espouse!"  and  Willoughby  rose  in  the  llev.  doctor's  esteem  : 
he  praised  that  sensibly  minded  gentleman,  who  could 
acquiesce  in  the  turn  of  mood  of  a  little  maid,  albeit  For- 
tune had  withheld  from  him  a  taste  of  the  switch  at  school. 
The  father  of  the  little  maid's  appreciation  of  her  volatility 
was  exhibited  in  his  exhortation  to  Vernon  to  be  off  to  her 
at  once  with  his  authority  to  finish  her  moods  and  assure 
him  of  peace  in  the  morning.  Vernon  hesitated.  Dr.  Mid- 
dleton remarked  upon  being  not  so  sure  that  it  was  not  he 
who  had  done  the  mischief.  Thereupon  Vernon,  to  prove 
his  honesty,  made  his  own  story  bare.  "  Go  to  her,"  said 
Dr.  Middleton.  Vernon  proposed  a  meeting  in  Switzerland, 
to  Avhieh  Dr.  Middleton  assented,  adding:  "  Go  to  her:"  and 
as  he  appeared  a  total  stranger  to  the  decorum  of  the  situa- 
tion, Vernon  put  his  delicacy  aside,  and  taking  his  heart  up, 
oheyed.  He  too  had  pondered  on  Clara's  consent  to  meet 
him  after  she  knew  of  Willoughby's  terms,  and  her  grave 
sweet  manner  during  the  ramble  over  the  park.  Her 
father's   breath   had  been  blown   into   him  ;    so  now,   with 


L^TITIA  AND  SIR  WILI.OUGHBY.  49.") 

nothing1  but  tlie  faith  lying  in  sensation  to  convince  him  of 
his  happy  fortune  (and  how  unconvincing  that  may  be  until 
the  mind  has  grasped  and  stamped  it,  we  experience  even 
then  when  we  acknowledge  that  we  are  most  blest),  he  held 
her  hand.  And  if  it  was  hard  for  him,  for  both,  but  hanlei 
for  the  man,  to  restrain  their  particular  word  from  a  flight 
to  heaven  when  the  cage  stood  open  and  nature  beckoned, 
he  was  practised  in  self-mastery,  and  she  loved  him  the 
more. 

Lretitia  was  a  witness  of  their  union  of  hands  on  her 
coming  back  to  the  room. 

They  promised  to  visit  her  very  early  in  the  morning, 
neither  of  them  conceiving  that  they  left  her  to  a  night  of 
storm  and  tears. 

She  sat  meditating  on  Clara's  present  appreciation  of  Sir 
Willoughby's  generosity. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

lj:titia  and  sir  willoughby. 


We  cannot  be  abettors  of  the  tribes  of  imps  whose  revelry 
is  in  the  frailties  of  our  poor  human  constitution.  They 
have  their  place  and  their  service,  and  so  long  as  we  con- 
tinue to  be  what  we  are  now,  they  will  hang  on  to  us,  rest- 
lessly plucking  at  the  garments  which  cover  our  nakedness, 
nor  ever  ceasing  to  twitch  them  and  strain  at  them  until 
they  have  fairly  skipped  us  for  one  of  their  horrible  Wal- 
purgis  nights  :  when  the  laughter  heard  is  of  a  character  to 
render  laughter  frightful  to  the  ears  of  men  throughout  the 
remainder  of  their  days.  But  if  in  these  festival  hours 
under  the  beams  of  Hecate  they  are  uncontrollable  by  the 
comic  Muse,  she  will  not  flatter  them  with  her  presence 
during  the  course  of  their  insane  and  impious  hilai'ities, 
whereof  a  description  would  out-Brocken  Brockens  and  make 
Graymalkin  and  Paddock  too  intimately  our  familiars. 

It  shall  suffice  to  say  that  from  hour  to  hour  of  the  mid- 
night to  the  grey-eyed  morn,  assisted  at  intervals  by  the 
ladies  Eleanor  and  Isabel,  and  by  Mr.  Dale  awakened  and 
reawakened — hearing  the  vehemence  of  his  petitioning  out 


404  TITE  EGOIST. 

cry  to  soften  her  obduracy — Sir  Willonghby  pursued  Lnrtitia 
with  solicitations  1,0  espouse  him,  until  the  inveteracy  of  his 
wooing1  wore  the  aspect  of  the  life-long  love  he  raved  of 
aroused  to  a  state  of  mania.  Jle  appeared,  he  departed,  he 
returned  ;  and  all  the  while  his  imps  were  about  him  and 
upon  him,  riding  him,  prompting,  driving,  inspiring  him 
with  outrageous  pathos,  an  eloquence  to  move  anyone  but 
the  dead,  which  its  object  seemed  to  be  in  her  torpid  atten- 
tion. He  heard  them,  he  talked  to  them,  caressed  them; 
he  flung  them  off  and  ran  from  them,  and  stood  vanquished 
for  them  to  mount  him  again  and  swarm  on  him.  There 
are  men  thus  imp-haunted.  Men  who,  setting  their  minds 
upon  an  object,  must  have  it,  breed  imps.  They  are  noted 
for  their  singularities,  as  their  converse  with  the  invisible 
and  amazing  distractions  are  called.  Wil  lough  by  became 
aware  of  them  that  night.  He  said  to  himself,  upon  one  of 
his  dashes  into  solitude  :  I  believe  I  am  possessed  !  And  if 
he  did  not  actually  believe  it,  but  only  suspected  it,  or 
framed  speech  to  account  for  the  transformation  he  had 
undergone  into  a  desperately  beseeching  creature,  having 
lost  acquaintance  with  his  habitual  personality,  the  opera- 
tions of  an  impish  host  had  undoubtedly  smitten  his  con- 
sciousness. He  had  them  in  his  brain :  for  while  burning 
with  an  ardour  for  Lajtitia,  that  incited  him  to  frantic 
excesses  of  language  and  comportment,  he  was  aware  of 
shouts  of  the  names  of  Lady  Busshe  and  Mrs.  Mountstuart 
Jenkinson,  the  which,  freezing  him  as  they  did,  were  directly 
the  cause  of  his  hunying  to  a  wilder  extravagance  and  more 
headlong  determination  to  subdue  before  break  of  day  the 
woman  he  almost  dreaded  to  behold  by  daylight,  though  he 
had  now  passionately  persuaded  himself  of  his  love  of  her. 
He  could  not,  he  felt,  stand  in  the  daylight  without  her. 
Bhe  was  his  morning.  She  was,  he  raved,  his  predestinated 
wife.  He  cried  :  "  Darling  !"  both  to  her  and  to  solitude. 
Every  prescription  of  his  ideal  of  demeanour  as  an  example 
to  his  class  and  country,  was  abandoned  by  the  enamoured 
gentleman.  He  had  lost  command  of  his  countenance.  He 
stooped  so  far  as  to  kneel,  and  not  gracefully.  Nay,  it  is  in 
the  chronicles  of  the  invisible  host  around  him,  that  in  a  fit 
of  supplication,  upon  a  cry  of  "Lajtitia!"  twice  repeated, 
he  whimpered. 

Let  so  much  suffice.     And  indeed  not  without  reason  do 


L^TITIA  AND  SIR  WILLOUGHBY.  495 

the  multitudes  of  the  servants  of  the  Muse  in  this  land  of 
social  policy  avoid  scenes  of  an  inordinate  wantonness  which 
detract  from  the  dignity  of  our  leaders  and  menace  human 
nature  with  confusion.  Sagacious  are  they  who  conduct  the 
individual  on  broad  lines,  over  familiar  tracks,  under  wrell- 
known  characteristics.  What  men  will  do,  and  amorously 
minded  men  will  do,  is  less  the  question  than  what  it  is 
politic  that  they  should  be  shown  to  do. 

The  night  wore  through.  Lastitia  was  bent,  but  had  not 
yielded.  She  had  been  obliged  to  say— and  how  many 
times,  she  could  not  bear  to  recollect :  "  I  do  not  love  you  ; 
I  have  no  love  to  give ;"  and  issuing  from  such  a  night  to 
look  again  upon  the  face  of  day,  she  scarcely  felt  that  she 
was  alive. 

The  contest  was  renewed  by  her  father  with  the  singing 
of  the  birds.  Mr.  Dale  then  produced  the  first  serious 
impression  she  had  received.  He  spoke  of  their  circum- 
stances, of  his  being  taken  from  her  and  leaving  her  to 
poverty,  in  weak  health  ;  of  the  injury  done  to  her  health 
by  writing  for  bread  ;  and  of  the  oppressive  weight  he  would 
be  relieved  of  by  her  consenting.  He  no  longer  implored 
her ;  he  put  the  case  on  common  ground. 

And  he  wound  up  :  "  Pray  do  not  be  ruthless,  my  girl." 

The  practical  statement,  and  this  adjuration  incongruously 
to  conclude  it,  harmonized  with  her  disordered  understand- 
ing, her  loss  of  all  sentiment  and  her  desire  to  be  kind.  She 
sighed  to  herself  :   "  Happily,  it  is  over!" 

Her  father  was  too  weak  to  rise.  He  fell  asleep.  She 
was  bound  down  to  the  house  for  hours  ;  and  she  walked 
through  her  suite,  here  at  the  doors,  there  at  the  windows, 
thinking  of  Clara's  remark  '  of  a  century  passing.'  She  had 
not  wished  it,  but  a  light  had  come  on  her  to  show  her  what 
she  would  have  supposed  a  century  could  not  have  effected  : 
she  saw  the  impossible  of  overnight  a  possible  thing :  not 
desireable,  yet  possible,  wearing  the  features  of  the  possible. 
Happily,  she  had  resisted  too  firmly  to  be  again  besought. 

Those  features  of  the  possible  once  beheld  allured  the 
mind  to  reconsider  them.  Wealth  gives  us  the  power  to  do 
good  on  earth.  Wealth  enables  us  to  see  the  world,  the 
beautiful  scenes  of  the  earth.  Laetitia  had  long  thirsted 
both  for  a  dowering  money-bag  at  her  girdle,  and  the  wings 
to  fly  abroad  over  lands  which  had  begun  to  seem  fabulous 


-."  - 


in  h  I    '•      .'•         d      Then,   rnor'-  '  -       '- 

ment  for  t:.       _  .an  was  gone.  -  a  delr. - 

gone;  acci:  -  _  -  n  would  n  I 

a   woman  the  less   helpful   mate.      T:  -   the   mate  he 

required :  and  he  could  be  led.     A   -  .^ntal  attachment 

have   been  servie      ss   to  him.     N   I    -     the   woman 
i  purely  rational  bond :  and  he  wanted  gui 
-:e  had  told  him  too  much  of  her  feeble  health 
and  her  lovel  be  reduced  to  submit  to  another 

If  in  her  room,  arm:  _      nr  her  de* 

\:>minu-   -        .  ter  her  father 
brt:              1  and  d 

the  other 

r  she  had  slept  er  from  the  foce 

her.     The   rings      :    '..    I  -          -               very 

r  mirror,  and   -  said:    " A  sing 

"  *  3  be  r                                             .  for  her  band        I 

kno                 -     o  damp  dead  I         si  :          heeks   to 

remind  me  of  midni_       vigils,  veil, 

"I  yet  I  could  sav  I  have  not  si 

I         -  in  dream  and 

pa:  _ •.  *  :  hoping ■  ~  -. ble  before  I  go." 

.   Ie.     That  is  the  word  for  me." 

"  :hed  the  the  nieh- 

a  man:  f est  6b 

lough':  him,  so 

-  • 
the   human   nature   without    som 
ied:   "I  hope,  i    I 

nothine  1:         I    :or  making 
you  hard,  matter-of- 

5   Vi  rnon.   t  -    anxious  for 

tia  wer.:  r  father's   room  to 

:•  him.  nmd  them  both  with  - 

m  for  them,  to  ask  the 
. 

"  -  s  1  ever"  a    " 

-    poor  fel 
he  had  into  Cross- 

.  up  and   talked  to  him, 


L^TI'JIA  AND  SIR  WILLOUGHBY.  4f»7 

and  set  the  lad  crying,  and  what  with  one  thing  and  another 
Crossjay  got  a  berry  in  his  throat,  as  he  calls  it,  and  poured 
out  everything  he  knew  and  all  he  had  done.  I  needn't  fell 
you  the  consequence.  He  has  ruined  himself  here  for  goo  J, 
so  I  must  take  him." 

Vernon  glanced  at  Clara.  "  Tou  must  indeed,"  said  she. 
"  lie  is  my  boy  as  well  as  yours.     No  chance  of  pardon  r" 

"  It's  not  likely." 

"LfFtitia!" 

"  AVhat  can  I  do  ?" 

"  Oh  !  what  can  you  not  do  ?" 

"I  do  not  know." 

"  Teach  him  to  forgive  !" 

Laatitia's  brows  were  heavy  and  Clara  forebore  to  torment 
her. 

She  would  not  descend  to  the  family  breakfast-table. 
Clara  would  fain  have  stayed  to  drink  tea  with  her  in  her 
own  room,  but  a  last  act  of  conformity  was  demanded  of  the 
liberated  young  lady.  She  promised  to  run  up  the  moment 
breakfast  was  over.  Not  unnaturally,  therefore,  Lsetitia 
supposed  it  to  be  she  to  whom  she  gave  admission,  half  an 
hour  later,  with  a  glad  cry  of,  "  Come  in,  dear." 

The  knock  had  sounded  like  Clara's. 

Sir  Willoughby  entered. 

He  stepped  forward.  He  seized  her  hands.  "Dear!" 
he  said.  "  You  cannot  withdraw  that.  You  called  me  deai\ 
I  am,  T  must  be  dear  to  you.  The  word  is  out,  by  accident 
or  not,  but,  by  heaven,  I  have  it  and  I  give  it  up  to  no  one. 
And  love  me  or  not — marry  me,  and  my  love  will  bring  it 
back  to  you.  You  have  taught  me  I  am  not  so  strong.  I 
must  have  you  by  my  side.  You  have  powers  I  did  not 
credit  you  with." 

"  You  are  mistaken  in  me,  Sir  Willoughby,"  La?titia  said 
feebly,  outworn  as  she  was. 

"  A  woman  who  can  resist  me  by  declining  to  be  my  wife, 
through  a  whole  night  of  entreaty,  has  the  quality  I  need 
for  my  house,  and  I  batter  at  her  ears  for  months,  with  as 
little  rest  as  I  had  last  night,  before  I  surrender  my  chance 
of  her.  But  I  told  you  last  night  I  want  you  within  the 
twelve  hours.  I  have  staked  my  pride  on  it.  By  noon  you 
are  mine  :  you  are  introduced  to  Mrs.  Mountstuart  as  mine 

2k 


498  TI1E  EGOIST. 

as  the  lady  of  my  life  and  house.     And  to  the  world!     1 
Bhall  not  let  yoti  go." 

"  You  will  not  detain  me  here,  Sir  "Willoughby  ?" 

"  I  will  detain  you.  I  will  use  force  and  guile.  I  will 
spare  nothing." 

I  le  raved  for  a  term,  as  he  had  done  overnight. 

On  his  growing  rather  breathless,  Lcetitia  said  :  "  You  do 
not  ask  me  for  love  ?" 

"I  do  not.  I  pay  you  the  higher  compliment  of  asking 
for  you,  love  or  no  love.  My  love  shall  be  enough.  Reward 
me  or  not.     I  am  not  used  to  be  denied." 

"  But  do  you  know  what  you  ask  for?  Do  you  remember 
what  I  told  you  of  myself  ?  I  am  hard,  materialistic ;  I 
have  lost  faith  in  romance,  the  skeleton  is  present  with  me 
all  over  life.  And  my  health  is  not  good.  I  crave 
for  money.  I  should  marry  to  be  rich.  I  should  not 
worship  you.  I  should  be  a  burden,  barely  a  living  one, 
irresponsive  and  cold.  Conceive  such  a  wife,  Sir  "Wil- 
loughbv !" 

"  It  will  be  you !" 

She  tried  to  recall  how  this  would  have  sung  in  her  ears 
long  back.  Her  bosom  rose  and  fell  in  absolute  dejection. 
Her  ammunition  of  arguments  against  him  had  been  ex- 
pended overnight. 

"  You  are  so  unforgiving,"  she  said. 

"  Is  it  I  who  am  r" 

"  You  do  not  know  me." 

"  But  you  are  the  woman  of  all  the  world  who  knows  me, 
La?titia." 

"  Can  you  think  it  better  for  3011  to  be  known  ?" 

He  was  about  to  say  other  words  :  he  checked  them.  "  I 
believe  I  do  not  knowr  myself.  Anything  you  will,  only  give 
me  your  hand;  give  it;  trust  to  me;  you  shall  direct  me. 
If  I  have  faults,  help  me  to  obliterate  them." 

"  "Will  you  not  expeefme  to  regard  them  as  the  virtues  of 
meaner  men  ?" 

"  You  will  be  my  wife  !" 

Lastitia  broke  from  him,  crying:  "  Your  wife,  your  critic  ! 
Oh !  I  cannot  think  it  possible.  Send  for  the  ladies.  Let 
them  hear  me." 

"  They  are  at  hand."  taid  Willoughby,  opening  the  door 


LETITIA  AND  SIR  W1LL0UGHBY.  499 

They  were  in  one  of  the  npper  rooms  anxiously  on  the 
watch. 

"  Dear  ladies,"  Lsetitia  said  to  them,  as  tiiey  entered.  "  I 
am  going  to  wound  you,  and  I  grieve  to  do  it :  but  rather 
now  than  later,  if  I  am  to  be  your  housemate.  He  asks  me 
for  a  hand  that  cannot  carry  a  heart,  because  mine  is  dead. 
I  repeat  it.  I  used  to  think  the  heart  a  woman's  marriage 
portion  for  her  husband.  I  see  now  that  she  may  consent, 
and  he  accept  her,  without  one.  But  it  is  right  that  you 
should  know  what  I  am  when  I  consent.  I  was  once  a 
foolioh  romantic  girl ;  now  I  am  a  sickly  woman,  all  illu- 
sions vanished.  Privation  has  made  me  what  an  abounding 
fortune  usually  makes  of  others — I  am  an  Egoist.  I  am  not 
deceiving  you.  That  is  my  real  character.  My  gild's  view 
of  him  has  entirely  changed ;  and  I  am  almost  indifferent  to 
the  change.  I  can  endeavour  to  respect  him,  I  cannot 
venerate." 

"  Dear  child  !"  the  ladies  gently  remonstrated. 

Willoughby  motioned  to  them. 

"  If  we  are  to  live  together,  and  I  could  very  happily  live 
with  you,"  Lastitia  continued  to  address  them,  "  you  must 
not  be  ignorant  of  me.  And  if  you,  as  I  imagine,  worship 
him  blindly,  I  do  not  know  how  we  are  to  live  together. 
And  never  shall  you  quit  this  house  to  make  way  for  me.  I 
have  a  hard  detective  eye.     I  see  many  faults." 

"  Have  we  not  all  of  us  faults,  dear  child  ?" 

"  Not  such  as  he  has  ;  though  the  excuses  of  a  gentleman 
nurtured  in  idolatry  may  be  pleaded.  But  he  should  know 
that  they  are  seen,  and  seen  by  her  he  asks  to  be  his  wife, 
that  no  misunderstanding  may  exist,  and  while  it  is  yet 
time  he  mav  consult  his  feelings.     He  worships  himself." 

"  Willoughby  ?" 

"He  is  vindictive." 

"  Our  Willoughby  ?" 

"  That  is  not  your  opinion,  ladies.  It  is  firmly  mine. 
Time  has  taught  it  me.  So,  if  you  and  I  are  at  such 
variance,  how  can  we  live  together?    It  is  an  impossibility." 

They  looked  at  Willoughby.     He  nodded  imperiously. 

"  We  have  never  affirmed  that  our  dear  nephew  is  devoid 
of  faults.  If  he  is  offended  ....  And  supposing  he  claims 
to  be  foremost,  is  it  not  his  rightful  claim,  made  good  bv 


500  THE  EGOIST. 

much  generosity  ?      Reflect,   dear   Lretitia.      We   arc  your 
friends  too." 

She  could  not  chastise  the  kind  Ladies  any  further. 

"  You  have  always  been  my  good  friends." 

"  And  you  have  no  other  charge  against  him  ?" 

Lretitia  was  milder  in  saving;  "  He  is  unpardoning." 

"  Name  one  instance,  Lsetitia." 

"  He  has  turned  Crossjay  out  of  his  house,  interdicting 
the  poor  boy  ever  to  enter  it  again." 

"  Crossjay,"  said  Willoughby,  "was  guilty  of  a  piece  of 
infamous  treachery." 

"  Which  is  the  cause  of  your  persecuting  me  to  become 
your  wife  !" 

There  was  a  cry  of  "  Persecuting  !" 

"  No.yonng  fellow  behaving  so  basely  can  come  to  good," 
said  Willoughby,  stained  about  the  face  with  flecks  of  red- 
ness at  the  lashings  he  received. 

"Honestly,"  she  retorted.  "He  told  of  himself:  and  he 
must  have  anticipated  the  punishment  he  would  meet.  He 
should  have  been  studying  with  a  master  for  his  profession. 
He  has  been  kept  here  in  comparative  idleness  to  be  alter- 
nately petted  and  discarded:  no  one  but  Vernon  Whit  ford, 
a  poor  gentleman  doomed  to  straggle  for  a  livelihood  by 
literature — I  know  something  of  that  straggle — too  much 
for  me  ! — no  one  but  Mr.  Whitford  for  his  friend." 

"  Crossjay  is  forgiven."  said  Willoughby. 

"  You  promise  me  that  ?" 

"  He  shall  be  packed  off  to  a  crammer  at  once." 

"  But  my  home  must  be  Crossjay's  home." 

"You  are  mistress  of  my  house,  Laditia." 

She  hesitated.  Her  eyelashes  grew  moist.  "You  can  be 
generous." 

"  He  is,  dear  child  !"  the  ladies  cried.  "  He  is.  Forget 
his  errors  in  his  generosity,  as  we  do." 

"  There  is  that  wretched  man  Flitch." 

"  That  sot  has  gone  about  the  county  for  years  to  get  me 
a  bad  character,"  said  Willoughby. 

"It  would  have  been  generous  in  you  to  have  offered  him 
another  chance.     He  has  children." 

"  Nine.      And  I  am  responsible  for  them  ?' 

"  I  speak  of  being  generous." 

"  Dictate."     Willoughby  spread  out  his  arms. 


THE  CURTAIN  FALLS.  501 

"  Surely  now  you  should  be  satisfied,  Lostitia  ?  said  the 
ladies. 

"  is  he  r 

"Willoughby  perceived  Mrs.  Mountstuart's  carriage  coming 
down  the  avenue. 

"  To  the  full."     He  presented  his  hand. 

She  raised  hers  with  the  fingers  catching  back  before  she 
ceased  to  speak  and  dropped  it ;  — 

"  Ladies,  you  are  witnesses  that  there  is  no  concealment, 
there  has  been  no  reserve,  on  my  part.  May  heaven  grant 
me  kinder  eyes  than  I  have  now.  I  would  not  have  you 
change  your  opinion  of  him ;  only  that  you  should  see  how  I 
read  him.  For  the  rest,  I  vow  to  do  my  duty  by  him. 
Whatever  is  of  worth  in  me  is  at  his  service.  I  am  very 
tired.  1  feel  I  must  yield  or  break.  This  is  his  wish,  and 
I  submit." 

"  And  I  salute  my  wife,"  said  Willoughby,  making  her 
hand  his  own,  and  warming  to  his  possession  as  he  per- 
formed the  act. 

Mrs.  Mounstuart's  indecent  hurry  to  be  at  the  Hall  before 
the  departure  of  Dr.  Middleton  and  his  daughter,  aiilicted 
him  with  visions  of  the  physical  contrast  which  would  be 
sharply  perceptible  to  her  this  morning  of  his  Lsetitia  beside 
Clara. 

But  he  had  the  lady  with  brains  !  He  had  :  and  he  was 
to  learn  the  nature  of  that  possession  in  the  woman  who  is 
our  wife. 


CHAPTER  L. 

UPON  WHICH  THE  CURTAIN  FALLS. 


"  Plain  sense  upon  the  marriage  question  is  my  demand 
upon  man  and  woman,  for  the  stopping  of  many  a  tragedy." 

These  were  Dr.  Middleton's  words  in  reply  to  Willough- 
by's  brief  explanation. 

He  did  not  say  that  he  had  shown  it  parentally  while  the 
tragedy  was  threatening,  or  at  least  there  was  danger  of  a 


502  THE  EOOIST. 

precipitate  descent  from  the  levels  of  comedy.  The  parents 
of  hymeneal  men  and  women  he  was  indisposed  to  consider 
as  dramatis  personae.  Nor  did  he  mention  certain  sym- 
pathetic regrets  he  entertained  in  contemplation  of  "the 
health  of  Mr.  Dale,  for  whom,  poor  gentleman,  the  proffer 
of  a  bottle  of  the  Patterne  Port  would  be  an  egregious 
mockery.  He  paced  about,  anxious  for  his  departure,  and 
seeming  better  pleased  with  the  society  of  Colonel  De  Crave 
than  with  that  of  any  of  the  others.  Colonel  De  Craye 
assiduously  courted  him,  was  anecdotal,  deferential,  charm- 
ingly vivacious,  the  very  man  the  Rev.  doctor  liked  for  com- 
pany when  plunged  in  the  bustle  of  the  preliminaries  to  a 
journey. 

'  You  would  be  a  cheerful  travelling  comrade,  sir,"  he 
remarked,  and  spoke  of  his  doom  to  lead  his  daughter  over 
the  Alps  and  Alpine  lakes  for  the  Summer  months. 

Strange  to  tell,  the  Alps  for  the  Summer  months,  was  a 
settled  project  of  the  colonel's. 

And  thence  Dr.  Middleton  was  to  be  hauled  along  to  the 
habitable  quarters  of  North  Italy  in  high  Summer-tide. 

That  also  had  been  traced  for  a  route  on  the  map  of 
Colonel  De  Craye. 

'  We  are  started  in  June,  I  am  informed,"  said  Dr.  Mid- 
dleton. 

June,  by  miracle,  was  the  month  the  colonel  had  fixed 
upon. 

"  I  trust  we  shall  meet,  sir,"  said  he. 

"  I  would  gladly  reckon  it  in  my  catalogue  of  pleasures," 
the  Rev.  doctor  responded  :  "  for  in  good  sooth  it  is  conjcc- 
tureable  that  I  shall  be  left  very  much  alone." 

'  Paris,  Strasburg,  Basle  ?"  the  colonel  inquired. 

"  The  Lake  of  Constance,  I  am  told,"  said  Dr.  Middleton. 

Colonel  De  Craye  spied  eagerly  for  an  opportunity  of  ex- 
changing a  pair  of  syllables  with  the  third  and  fairest  party 
of  this  glorious  expedition  to  come. 

Willoughby  met  him,  and  rewarded  the  colonel's  frankness 
in  stating  that  he  was  on  the  look-out  for  Miss  Middleton  to 
take  his  leave  of  her,  by  furnishing  him  the  occasion.  He 
conducted  his  friend  Horace  to  the  Blue  Room,  where  Clara 
and  Loetitia  were  seated  circling  a  half  embrace  with  a  brook 
of  chatter,  and  contrived  an  excuse  for  leading  Laetitia  forth. 
Some  minutes  later  Mrs.  Mountstuart  called  aloud  for  the 


THE  CURTAIN  FALLS.  503 

colonel,  to  drive  him  away.  Willoughby,  whose  good  offices 
were  unabated  by  the  services  he  performed  to  each  in  rota- 
tion, ushered  her  into  the  Blue  Room,  hearing  her  say,  as 
she  stood  at  the  entrance  :  "  Is  the  man  coming  to  spend  a 
day  with  me  with  a  face  like  that  ?" 

She  was  met  and  detained  by  Clara. 

De  Craye  came  out. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  ?"  said  Willoughby. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  the  colonel,  "  of  developing  a  heart, 
like  you,  and  taking  to  think  of  others." 

"At  last!' 

"  Ay,  you're  a  true  friend,  Willoughby,  a  true  friend. 
And  a  cousin  to  boot !" 

"  What !   has  Clara  been  communicative  ?" 

"  The  itinerary  of  a  voyage  Miss  Middleton  is  going  to 
make." 

"  Do  you  join  them  ?" 

"  Why,  it  would  be  delightful,  Willonghby,  but  it  happens 
I've  got  a  lot  of  powder  I  want  to  let  off,  and  so  I've  an  idea 
of  shouldering  my  gun  along  the  sea-coast  and  shooting 
gulls :  which  '11  be  a  harmless  form  of  committing  parricide 
and  matricide  and  fratricide — for  there's  my  family,  and  I 
come  of  it ! — the  gull !  And  I've  to  talk  lively  to  Mrs. 
Mountstuart  for  something  like  a  matter  of  twelve  hours, 
calculating  that  she  goes  to  bed  at  midnight :  and  I  wouldn't 
bet  on  it ;  such  is  the  energy  of  ladies  of  that  age !" 

Willoughby  scorned  the  man  who  could  not  conceal  a  blow, 
even  though  he  joked  over  his  discomfiture. 

"  Gull !"  he  muttered. 

"  A  bird  that's  easy  to  be  had,  and  better  for  stuffing  than 
for  eating,"  said  De  Craye.     "  You'll  miss  your  cousin." 

"  I  have,"  replied  Willoughby,  "  one  fully  equal  to  sup- 
plying his  place." 

There  was  confusion  in  the  hall  for  a  time,  and  an  assembly 
of  the  household  to  witness  the  departure  of  Dr.  Middleton 
and  his  daughter.  Vernon  had  been  driven  off  by  Dr. 
Corney,  who  further  recommended  rest  for  Mr.  Dale,  and 
promised  to  keep  an  eye  for  Crossjay  along  the  road. 

"  I  think  you  will  find  him  at  the  station,  and  if  you  do, 
command  him  to  come  straight  back  here,"  Laetitia  said  to 
Clara. 

The  answer  was  an  affectionate  squeeze,  and  Clara's  hand 


504  TTTE  EGOIST. 

was  extended  to  Willoughby,  who  bowed  over  it  with  perfecJ 
courtesy,  bidding  her  adieu. 

So  the  knot  was  cut.  And  the  next  carriage  to  Dr.  Mid- 
dleton's  was  Mrs.  Mountstuart's,  conveying  the  great  lady 
and  Colonel  De  Craye. 

"  I  beg  you  not  to  wear  that  face  with  me,"  she  said  to 
him.  "  I  have  had  to  dissemble,  which  I  hate,  and  I  have 
quite  enough  to  endure,  and  I  must  be  amused,  or  I  shall 
run  away  from  you  and  enlist  that  little  countryman  of 
yours,  and  him  and  I  can  count  on  to  be  professionally 
restorative.  Who  can  fathom  the  heart  of  a  girl  !  Here  is 
Lady  Busshe  right  once  more!  And  I  was  wrong.  She 
must  be  a  gambler  by  nature.  I  never  should  have  risked 
such  a  guess  as  that.  Colonel  De  Craye,  you  lengthen  your 
face  preternatural ly,  you  distort  it  purposely." 

"Ma'am,"  returned  De  Craye,  "the  boast  of  our  army  is 
never  to  know  when  we  are  beaten,  and  that  tells  of  a  great- 
hearted soldiery.  But  there's  a  field  where  the  Briton  must 
own  liis  defeat,  whether  smiling  or  crying,  and  I'm  not  so 
sure  that  a  short  howl  doesn't  do  him  honour." 

"  She  was,  I  am  certain,  in  love  with  Vernon  Wkitford  all 
along,  Colonel  De  Craye  !" 

"  Ah  !"  the  colonel  drank  it  in.  "  I  have  learnt  that  it 
was  not  the  gentleman  in  whom  I  am  chiefly  interested.  So 
it  was  not  so  hard  for  the  lady  to  vow  to  friend  Willoughby 
she  would  marry  no  one  else !" 

"  Now  would  you,  could  you  have  judged  from  her  physiog- 
nomy that  she  was  a  girl  to  fall  in  love  with  a  man  like  Mr. 
Whitford  ?" 

"  Going  by  the  Mythology,  ma'am,  I  should  have  suspected 
the  God  xMars." 

"Girls  are  unfathomable!  And  Lady  Busshe — I  know 
she  did  not  go  by  character — shot  one  of  her  random  guesses, 
and  triumphs.  We  shall  never  hear  the  last  of  it.  And  I 
had  all  the  opportunities.     I'm  bound  to  confess  I  had." 

"Did  you  by  chance,  ma'am,"  De  Craye  said  with  a  twinkle, 
"drop  a  hint  to  AVilloughby  of  her  turn  for  Vernon  Whit- 
ford P" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Mountstuait,  "I'm  not  a  nrschief-nrak.  r; 
and  the  policy  of  the  county  is  to  keep  him  in  love  with  h  Mi- 
self,  or  Fatterne  will  be  likely  to  be  as  dull  as  it  was  without 


THE  CURTAIN  FALLS.  505 

a  lady  enthroned.  When  his  pride  is  at  ease  he  is  a  prince. 
I  can  read  men.     Now,  Colonel  De  Craye,  pray,  be  lively." 

"I  should  have  been  livelier,  I'm  afraid,  if  you  had  dropped 
a  bit  of  a  hint  to  Willoughby.  But  you're  the  magnanimous 
person,  ma'am,  and  revenge  for  a  stroke  in  the  game  of  love 
shows  us  unworthy  to  win." 

Mrs.  Mountstuart  menaced  him  with  her  parasol.  "  I  for- 
bid sentiments,  Colonel  De  Craye.  They  are  always  followed 
by  sighs." 

"  Grant  me  five  minutes  of  inward  retirement,  and  I'll 
come  out  formed  for  your  commands,  ma'am,"  said  he. 

Before  the  termination  of  that  space  De  Craye  was  en- 
chanting Mrs.  Mountstuart,  and  she  in  consequence  was 
restored  to  her  natural  wit. 

So,  and  much  so  universally,  the  world  of  his  dread  and 
his  unconscious  worship  wagged  over  Sir  Willoughby  Pat- 
terne  and  his  change  of  brides,  until  the  preparations  for  the 
festivities  of  the  marriage  flushed  him  in  his  county's  eyes 
to  something  of  the  splendid  glow  he  had  worn  on  the  great. 
day  of  his  majority.  That  was  upon  the  season  when  two 
lovers  met  between  the  Swiss  and  Tyrol  Alps  over  the  Lake 
of  Constance.  Sitting  beside  them  the  comic  Muse  is  grave 
and  sisterly.  But  taking  a  glance  at  the  others  of  her  late 
company  of  actors,  she  comprtsdes  her  lips. 


THE  END. 


.,„,.  or  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGEU3 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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